a case of you
by Anastasia-G
Summary: After a wild drunken night culminates in a magical marriage, Klaus and Bonnie must deal with the aftermath of this new bond while discovering how magic and desire are intertwined. AU after 3x18 of TVD
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Happy 2017 Klonnie fam! I should be making a syllabus but here I am starting a new Klonnie fic I've wanted to write for a while now, because I am a very responsible adult. The premise of this story is borrowed from the amazing Dramione fic, "The Dragon's Bride" by Rizzle which is published here on FF dot net. I highly recommend checking it out if you're a fan of that ship! This fic is AU after 3x18 of TVD, and I will fill in some of the gaps as the story goes along. Hope you enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts in the reviews!_

* * *

 _Oh but you are in my blood you're my holy wine_

 _You're so bitter_

 _bitter and so sweet oh_

 _I could drink a case of you darling_

 _Still I'd be on my feet_

 _I would still be on my feet -_ Joni Mitchell

* * *

His waking mind is dimly aware of two things: he's slept outside, and he's inordinately _comfortable_. It's barely after dawn, he can tell by the softness of the Louisiana sun and the green coolness of dew. Lulled by the dream-like, fragrant morning, Klaus keeps his eyes closed a few moments longer. It feels oddly like the morning after he broke his hybrid curse, when he woke up feeling fleshly and alive for the first time in a thousand years. There is the same serenity, the same lush exhaustion -

\- only, he is not alone.

There's a soft, warm stirring beside him as his companion readjusts her position. His eyes fly open, glancing down at the pool of dark, tousled curls on his chest, and for a moment his mind goes curiously blank, registering a strange, _sated_ feeling rising up from his bones to spread through his limbs. Vines of blooming jasmine are curled around his ankles and hers, and his muscles feel wonderfully languid, like after swimming a bright, strong current.

Then, a breeze lifts his lover's hair.

 _Bloody throne of Hades._ His tranquility vanishes with the morning mist.

Nestled asleep naked in his arms in the middle of a Louisiana oak grove is none other than the brazen little witch who'd once almost killed him. Bonnie _you-bother-me_ Bennett.

His mind takes advantage of his momentary shock to dredge up sly bits of memory from the night prior. There had been a wedding, Caroline Forbes and Stefan Salvatore. He recalls being terrifically bored at the reception. He'd been stabbing his crème brûlée with a fork and wondering how many of the servers he could eat before anyone noticed, when the witch had appeared before him with a glass of champagne. They'd left together-

-images meld into a kaleidoscope, each one more astounding than the next. _Bonnie's head leaning tipsily on his shoulder as they made their way down Bourbon Street. A stolen kiss in the corner booth of a dim cajun cafe. Blazing down the highway in a roofless car with the little witch practically on his lap, a bottle of Moonshine shared between them. The shimmer of her periwinkle dress as she ran nymph-like through the trees, trailing laughter and beckoning him to give chase. Pearl buttons scattering like dew when he finally had her in his arms._

He can smell her now, a rich sweet scent combined with his own and with the unmistakable pungence of sex. And there's something else too, a more ethereal perfume lingering: the afterglow of magic. Klaus has the nagging feeling he's forgotten something terribly important about the events of last night, but Bonnie shifts again, her knee rising higher on his thigh, evidently as content as though she were a kitten and he a particularly warm pile of laundry.

"Mmm," she hums, nuzzling him in earnest. He hardly ever uses the camera on his phone, but _just this once_ he wishes the device were within reach so he could immortalize this sight and brandish it as leverage for years to come.

"Rise and shine, darling," he says dryly, giving her shoulder a little shake.

Bonnie starts and raises a sleep-bleary face.

He should have delighted in watching her expressions change from confusion to shock to horror, should have relished in her frantic attempts to disentangle herself and laughed when she scooted away admonishing him not to touch her.

He should have done all this and more but his gaze stays fixed where her head had lain, and the marriage tattoo gleaming under his skin.

* * *

Jasmine surrounds them, dotting the tree trunk and roots with blossoms like stars. The fragrance drifts lazily in the air. They're both dusted in petals.

Bonnie knows it's futile, perhaps even silly, to attempt covering herself with her hands. Their mutual nudity aside, the incriminating memories swimming in her head, memories that she feels in no way equipped to process without the aid of heavy alcohol, leave no room for illusions about the nature of their night together.

She's glancing frantically around for something with which to clothe herself - a shred of her dress, some leaves, _anything_ \- when he speaks, his voice cold and accusatory. It instantly sets her teeth on edge.

"What have you done, _witch_?"

" _Excuse me_?"

Before she can blink he's risen lithely to his feet and walked over to her, pulling her up by an elbow and thwarting any attempt to cover her eyes. She averts her gaze, causing him to tighten his grip.

"Explain yourself," he hisses, shaking her for emphasis.

His closeness and the wild, sharp scent of him conjures up images from the night before that make her want to crawl into a hole and live out her days as a hermit.

"Believe me I wish I could," she mutters. "Hey-!"

He's pushed her against the tree that had sheltered them, pinning her arms over her head and peering intently down at her naked form. Little white flowers fall around them like snow. She squirms under his scrutiny but there's no heat in his gaze, none of the hunger her mind insists on recalling from the previous night. Instead he surveys her body like she's a haystack he's lost a particularly precious needle in.

"Stop that," he snaps, frowning at her attempts to give him an aneurysm.

She's gearing up to set him on fire when she spies the tattoo glistening mutely on his left shoulder, just above his heart. It's a familiar, magical symbol eked in jade-green ink and small, delicate runes that make her head spin when she tries to read them.

Her stomach drops.

"Klaus - _please_ tell me that isn't-,"

"Oh believe me I wish I could," he mimics sarcastically, still scouring her skin for any hint of a matching mark.

He won't find it where he's looking. She knows because as soon as her eyes landed on his tattoo she'd felt the warm responsive pinprick of magic on her own skin.

"I- I think I know where mine is," she whispers in the despondent voice of someone who's found plague spots on their body.

He glowers down at her, unwilling to relinquish his hold.

"What do you think I'm gonna do?" she snaps. "Take off running through the woods?"

"As I recall, you were _quite_ content to play Daphne and Apollo the night before," he growls.

"Yeah well, I should've made like Daphne and turned myself into a tree before you caught me, but here we are." Her own voice drips with sarcasm. Her arms hurt, and her neck is already stiff from craning to meet his eyes.

"If this is part of some plan-," he threatens.

"What _plan_ , Klaus?" Her voice reaches a fever pitch as the reality of their situation sinks in. "You think I _planned_ to sleep with you and get myself magically married?"

Her mind flashes to the previous evening. _She'd walked up to him at the reception and offered him a glass of champagne. She can't remember why. They'd ended up in that attic shop that smelled of magic and blood and incense. There were shelves jeweled with bottles of tattoo ink. And Klaus had kissed her, laughing, as she helped him unbutton his shirt._ She cringes now at the memory of her fumbling hands and his fond, warm grin.

"We went to that place together, remember?" she insists, "you got yours first, and then they - they did mine."

He blinks and she sees recollection on his face. He releases his grip so suddenly she almost stumbles.

She doesn't need to touch the mark to know it's there. She can feel it tingling, the magic woven into her cells. Bonnie turns around and sweeps her hair to the side, exposing the back of her neck.

Some small, futile part of her hopes against hope that she is mistaken. That this is all some hungover hallucination, that she'd never left the reception with Klaus, never gone to that strange shop, never let herself be marked as his wife with a spelled needle and magical ink.

Unbidden, she remembers standing just like this, under a flickering light instead of a tree, showing him her new tattoo. _She'd felt as naked as she is now, that while others had seen her undressed he was seeing her unveiled, glimpsing a part of her that was dark and joyful, a secret she had told no one else. He'd claimed the skin there with his mouth, kissed away the blood, made her tremble-_

He makes no move to touch her now.

The last of her hope drowns in his silence.


	2. Chapter 2

He supposes it's quite an artistic sight. Her nude body under the looming tree, jasmine at her feet, hair lifted delicately in one hand. Their night together has left marks. Her hips, her back, her shoulder-blades, her legs are all canvassed with his attentions. But whatever visual pleasure he may have otherwise derived is squashed under the weight of fury and disbelief as he stares at her corresponding tattoo.

It's a triskelion, like his, a mirror image in fact except for color. While his is deep serpentine green, hers is bright gold like veins of mineral beneath the skin. It glitters when she moves, slipping out of sunlight and shadow.

The longer he looks at the glowing mark, the more his stomach twists in an uneasy feeling of vulnerability and exposure. If any of his numerous enemies discovered he'd gotten himself magically married to a Bennett witch-

He can already hear the derision and outrage that would ring through the Quarter, followed no doubt by plots and traps designed to exploit this new liability.

Once again, the witch's presence in his life proves dangerous. They'd have to move quickly to rectify the situation.

She glances over her shoulder, and he remembers, suddenly, the softness of her skin and the way she'd trembled when he kissed her there. For some reason, this darkens his mood even further.

"Cover that up," he says roughly. "And let's get back to the car."

He could've sworn she flinches a little. Or perhaps it's a trick of the light, the breeze skipping over the magical mark on his chest. The longer he looks at her, the more the feeling grows, like anemone currents of awareness.

If she has questions about her tattoo - what it looks like (what it looks like to him, perhaps) - she keeps them to herself, letting her hair fall over her neck.

"Klaus?"

He's been staring. Like some hapless schoolboy.

"What about our clothes?" she asks pointedly. "And what car?"

"The car I stole for you, sweetheart," he supplies, beginning to scour the perimeter for any discarded clothes. He spots his white dress shirt between some bushes and dusts it off.

"The car you- _what_?"

"Stole. Or, rather, _Compelled_ from the owner. Some pompous fool in a dinner jacket, if I remember correctly."

"Oh my god-," he hears her whisper.

"Yes you were quite liberal in your use of _that_ particular phrase."

"You. are -"

"Terrible? Disgusting? Evil incarnate? Yes I know." He begins scouring the perimeter for more of their clothing, locating his trousers not far off. "Do be sure to add 'husband' to my long list of attributes." He stands in before her with his shirt.

She raises a quizzical eyebrow, prompting the realization that he was prepared to help her into it.

(Like a personal valet. Unacceptable)

"Put this on," he tosses it to her without ceremony and stalks off among the grass, searching for more discarded garments.

The witch holds her tongue, which almost irritates him further.

 _His_ shoes make an appearance soon enough, but the heirloom cufflinks he'd had to practically extort from Elijah to complete his formal attire are nowhere to be seen.

 _Fantastic. Just bloody fantastic._

The fact that, a few feet away, her bridesmaid dress lies in glittery ruin is only a small comfort.

"Is _that_ my dress?"

He pokes the gauzy fabric with his foot. "It would appear so."

She snatches up the garment in a show of righteous indignation that would have been a tad more impressive were she not currently swallowed by his dress shirt. Watching her revives that same uneasy feeling. He strains his memory for information about who might have seen him with the witch last night but comes up blank. There's a mist over portions of their night together that is only half clearing.

They head off through the trees, but their pace irks him almost immediately. She's picking her way slowly through the thick grass, barefoot and clearly exhausted.

"Here," he stops in front of her and offers her a bitten wrist.

The look she gives him is so contemptuous he may as well have offered her candy stolen from a child. "Are you crazy? I'm not drinking any more of your blood." She speaks haughtily enough but he notes the way she averts her eyes, clearly caught in the grip of embarrassing memory. He lifts her chin and examines her neck, eyeing the faint marks left by his fangs.

"A little late for these maidenly qualms don't you think, love?"

Green eyes cut him like glass. He is briefly reminded of a night in Mystic Falls years ago, and the disgusted horror on her face when he emptied his blood into a goblet for the Unlinking spell. "You know blood makes any spell stronger," her voice like ice. "I'm not giving this... _thing_ any more ammunition than we already have."

It's difficult to believe her head was pillowed on his chest mere moments ago, or that hours before that -

( _her lips had been soft and hungry as they suckled his wrist, her eyes hooded with the rush of his blood through her veins. He should have insisted she take more. But he'd been reckless and overeager, ravening to taste her in all the ways available to him -_ )

His own actions - the kisses he'd planted along her throat, the care he'd taken with the bite despite the naked hunger he'd submitted to - prove equally incomprehensible in the light of day.

For an instant he considers forcing the blood down her throat, but something about the mutinous look on her face combined with the recollection of their night together dampens his resolve in a peculiar way. Her attitude rankles of course, but then again it always had. What proves harder to expunge, what blights any trace of good humor left to him and has him sneering "Have it your way then," before striding ahead of her is not her refusal.

It's something else altogether. The incongruity of tenderness.

* * *

By some miracle, the blue Monte Carlo convertible is still parked on the dirt road where they'd left it. The icy gleam of new paint flashes in her mind.

 _She'd marvelled at the sapphire color and creamy leather seats, how the vehicle smacked of old school glamor, like the black-and-white movies she used to watch with Grams. Klaus had noticed her admiring looks and smoothly Compelled the keys from their owner. She'd protested of course. They can't just_ _take_ _someone's car. But that's precisely what they did. Just took the car, her protests melting into laughter when he swung her up bridal style in his arms to carry her into their new acquisition. "Let's go for a drive, wife." He'd grinned in a boyish triumph that made her heart flutter. She'd kissed him with her arms around his neck._

She can't remember the last time she had a speeding ticket or even jaywalked. And yet, only last night, she'd happily let him carry her into a stolen car. She'd lost herself for a night and she has no idea how. There are as many gaps and clouds in her brain as there are memories.

"You are staying at the Marriott, I assume?"

"Yes...why?" she answers warily. Klaus seems as calm and self assured as though standing by a poached convertible in nothing but tuxedo pants is an everyday occurrence for him. And yet, she can sense the agitation boiling underneath. She rubs the back of her neck, willing the sensation to subside.

"I'll have your things brought to my residence. As soon as we're dressed we can return to that blasted emporium and see about having these marks removed."

"I need to call my dad," she blurts. "And I need to shower."

"Shockingly, I happen to live in a place with both electricity and running water," he informs her, sliding into the driver's side. "Get in."

"You have petals in your hair, by the way. Just thought you should know," she adds faux-sweetly, closing the passenger door.

"Thank you, _wife_. I believe these belong to you," he plucks something small and silky off the gear shift and flings it at her, and she is mortified to discover they are panties. Specifically _her_ panties, with a tear on one side. She firmly pushes _that_ memory to the back of her mind.

The drive proves more harsh on her overwrought senses than the walk to the car. The brightening sunlight hurts her eyes and her mouth is so dry it's painful to swallow. Bonnie leans her throbbing head on the window and closes her eyes. When she opens them next they're parked behind a white-columned house that engulfs half the block.

Cleary a Mikaelson residence.

She sits up and wipes drool off her chin. She feels sticky...everywhere. _Ugh_.

Klaus pauses drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to glance irritably at her. "Look alive, witch. We have a problem."

She can think of a hundred snappy responses but seeing as how nothing feels as important as getting under a shower as soon as possible, she waits for him to continue.

"I can hear people inside. Specifically, two of my siblings and two of your friends. Which means-,"

She claps a hand over her mouth. "Do you think they know-"

"I doubt they know about -," he gestures vaguely at his chest " - our _predicament_. I suspect your dear Caroline spied us leaving together and, when you had yet to turn up this morning, rushed here to your rescue with Stefan in tow."

"Oh god-," she rubs her aching forehead, already sensing Caroline's barrage of questions and Stefan's confused shock. She's hungry, parched, her muscles hurt in places they have no business hurting, and she's sitting in a stolen car dressed only in Klaus' shirt. She groans, sagging into the seat, "Forget walk of shame. I'm a float in a Mardi Gras parade of humiliation."

He opens her door and holds out his hand, "Well, let's not keep the public waiting."

She ignores his hand and climbs slowly out, folding her arms around herself as if to regain an air of dignity. "So...what, we just pretend we had a one night stand?"

"Precisely. Be sure to emphasize how you, a hapless little witch, were swept off your feet by my considerable charms, how you threw all caution to the wind when I-,"

"Keep talking and I will set you on fire right here in this street."

"Now now _wife,_ think of what the neighbors will say," he steers her toward the house by the elbow.

" _Don't_ call me that."

"As you wish, darling."

"Or _that_."

Frowning, she slips his hold and hurries back to the car and retrieves her torn dress, waving it in front of his bare chest. " Cover up your tattoo, genius. One look at that and everyone will know."

He quirks an eyebrow, running a strip of gauzy fabric between his fingers. "As ravishing as I look in drag, love, I doubt your dress is much good to anyone anymore. You and I made quite sure of that last night."

She narrows her eyes and flings the garment across his shoulder. "Just use it like a scarf until we get past the crowd."

Klaus mutters about the indignity of this entire situation but nevertheless adjusts the dress so it hangs over his chest just so. She would have laughed if her stomach weren't in angry knots.

They enter the house together.

Bonnie's not quite sure _what_ she expected when they strolled into the foyer (a foyer where Elijah, Rebekah, Caroline and Stefan all awaited them with matching looks of suspicion and disapproval) but her imagination certainly didn't extend to Elijah's greeting. She blinks like she's swallowed her own tongue, not quite sure she's heard right. Her mind goes utterly blank. She manages a glance at Klaus and finds him white as a sheet, looking just as flabbergasted as that time she strode out of the woods and nearly killed him.

The elder Original pauses from pouring brandy out of a crystal decanter, an elegant eyebrow arched in their direction.

"Ah, Niklaus. Ms Bennett, right on time." He raises his glass, "A toast? To the new Mr and Mrs Mikaelson. Although, perhaps I should not presume you would take my brother's name. This _is,_ after all _,_ the twenty first century."

Bonnie finds her limbs have turned to blocks of ice. Caroline approaches them slowly, handing Bonnie a crumpled sheet of paper without ever meeting her eyes.

Bonnie reads it once, twice. The room spins.

She's holding a signed and notarized certificate of marriage in her hand.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Thank you SO MUCH for all your reviews. Y'all are wonderful and such a pleasure to write for. Thank you for keeping support and enthusiasm alive in our little fandom! And in that vein, I would just like to direct people to a crop of new Klonnie fics being written by some of my favorite writers and people:_

 _A Mate for a Throne by lilac17 (this is a Soulmate AU with a wonderful, heartbreakingly sweet take on how Klaus and Bonnie fell in love)_

 _a longing like despair by the fudge is grumpy (an AMAZING, riveting Klonnie historical AU where they're step-siblings who form a strange and intense connection, written by my trash soul sis so y'all know it's the bomb dot com)_

 _Out in the Woods and  Geaux Tigers by LittleWingx (two achingly good Klonnie oneshots that hit all the right spots for our OTP)_

 _So, if you're thirsty for Klonnie do read these amazing writers and show them some love!_

 _Until next time loves xoxox_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** Thank you for all your reviews and support! I really enjoyed writing this chapter so I hope it's an enjoyable read as well :) In fact I enjoyed writing this so much that I almost didn't want to say what follows, but I wouldn't be doing my due Hufflepuff diligence if I didn't. So, (I apologize for getting on a bit of a soapbox here) I just want to remind all of us that while fanfic writers are using characters that belong to someone else, what differentiates us from plagiarizers is that there's no secret about the fact that we're all borrowing ideas and characters nor do we expect there to be. However, when you use ideas and concepts and themes that  are original to the fic writer and then don't credit them, that unfortunately veers into plagiarism or intellectual theft. There's a reason I made it very clear that the core idea for this story is borrowed from another fic writer, and that's because she came up with it and it was reading her story that sparked my own muse. I don't think it takes away from my work to acknowledge the places where other writers have inspired me, in fact I think such acknowledgements enrich and nurture fandom communities. There's no shame in shouting out the people whose ideas kindled yours, there is shame in blatantly lifting concepts and scenes without so much as a nod to the other writers in fandom who are working as hard as you to provide quality content for readers, especially in a ship like Klonnie where due to the dearth of canon there's so much original content that's being produced. None of us are getting paid for this work, we're all here for the love of writing and these characters. So, do right by your fellow writers yea? *steps off soapbox* Thanks for listening!  
_

 _And thank you always for reading and being so wonderfully supportive of my work, I'm very excited about this fic and I can't wait to share the rest with you guys. I also know that TVD (and TO too probably) is ending soon, but I hope you guys stick around because I'm nowhere near done telling Klonnie stories. Do let me know your thoughts in the reviews! xoxoxo_

* * *

Where her brothers are concerned, Rebekah Mikaelson prides herself on two things. One, she can drink all of them under the table (the exception of course being Finn, who never drank at all). Two, she can usually tell when they're hiding something.

And as of this moment, she would wager her favorite pair of Louboutins that Klaus is hiding _something_ about his night with the Bennett witch.

It's not just the furious disbelief with which he'd snatched up the marriage certificate and glared at the signatures (legalities usually never ruffle his feathers) nor the stream of multilingual expletives that followed prompting a sharp reprimand from Elijah (for all his vagaries, Nik is not prone to public swearing), nor even the furtive glances between him and the witch (she feels sorry for the latter, she's known a few girls like that in her time, strait-laced little things that, after trying to sow all their wild oats in one night, usually woke up in a different country having lost their maidenheads and their passports too)

Instead, it's the way her brother's eyes dart suspiciously around the room, as though waiting for someone to volunteer more information.

That, and both he and the witch positively _reek_ of magic.

She loved all her siblings but she and Nik, being so close in age and alike in temper, had a special bond. They understood each other, had protected and stood up for each other sometimes against their own better judgement. Which is why his scorn about her rekindling her relationship with Marcel when they moved to New Orleans had stung so deeply.

" _Don't take it personally," Marcel murmured into her hair, affecting a boyish cockiness."He's just mad because he's still single."_

 _She sighed, burying her nose in the crook of his neck and inhaling his cool, smoky scent. In the chaos and debris that was her family, Marcel had always felt safe and calm as an island. "You'd think it's_ _ **my**_ _fault that his ex-boyfriend is marrying his ex-flavor of the week."_

 _He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that warmed her the way sunlight never did. "It's not. But lonely people lash out, you just happen to be standing close by."_

" _I can't wait till I'm standing several countries away. Let Elijah deal with his tantrums." She rubbed slow circles on his back, memorizing the smooth expanse of skin._

 _It was almost dawn and his flight to Paris left in a few hours. He would be gone for three months, a mere eyeblink to immortals, yes, but Rebekah had always thought Time measured itself not in days or hours but in loneliness, in those moments where the world and all its people are like an empty room with your words echoing off the wall._

" _I wish you weren't leaving," she said in a small voice._

 _Marcel rolled her on top of him, pushing back the curtain of her tousled blond hair. His hand cradled her cheek. "Enjoy it while you can. When we've been in our little spot in Provence for a few years you'll be so sick of me you'll beg me to leave."_

" _I suppose you're right. I'll soon tire of you and assemble an army of virile young lovers instead."_

" _Hey now-,"_

" _What?" she feigned innocence. "_ _Don't_ _take it **personally**_ _ **.**_ "

If Nik had given her his blessing to be happy with someone who loved her after centuries on the run, if he had tried to understand and respect why she wanted such a thing instead of calling her "silly" and "impulsive", she and Marcel wouldn't be planning their elopement to France in secret, and she might have been inclined to act the conscientious sister now by easing the embarrassing tension in the room, to perhaps shoo the others away so Nik and the witch could have some privacy to sort out their problem.

Instead, she pulls out her phone and opens the video message she and Elijah had both received from Klaus the night before. It showed their brother and Bonnie being married in a courthouse and exchanging a passionate kiss before he the swept the little witch into his arms and twirled them around like he was in the kind of film he always snubbed her for enjoying. So much for _her_ being impulsive.

"Everyone! Look what I have here," she cheerfully brandishes her phone at the group, "Let's all watch together, shall we?"

Elijah holds out a hand in protest, "Rebekah, perhaps now is not the best-,"

She hits play.

* * *

Caroline Forbes-Salvatore has seen many strange things in her lifetime, things that would beggar belief and drive regular people out of their minds.

She's fairly certain however that the video of her best friend in the whole world, Bonnie I-look-twice-before-crossing-the-street Bennett, embracing Klaus Mikaelson and giggling like a schoolgirl as he spun her around, takes the proverbial cake.

She had been furious on three fronts when she arrived at the Mikaelson manner: at Bonnie for compromising her maid of honor duties by leaving the reception early, at Klaus for whisking her maid of honor away, and finally at herself for seeking Klaus' help with the venue and thereby owing him an invitation. As soon as she got the phonecall from Elijah she'd headed over with Stefan and a change of clothes for Bonnie in tow (I mean, she was mad but she was still a good friend), ready to unleash her wrath (with no small amount of judgement. Leaving with Klaus? _Klaus?_ ) on the best friend she thought she knew so well.

But the wedding video that Rebekah triumphantly screens for them not only freezes her anger, it shocks her into another, more uncomfortable realization.

The laughing, carefree Bonnie in Klaus' arms pierces her with dejavu, reminding her of their freshman year of high school before vampires and witchcraft and all the rest, when their biggest worry was what to wear to their first homecoming, when Bonnie Bennett laughed all the time.

They had all changed over the years, shed the layers of girlhood far before any of them were ready, but she'd never realized before just how much Bonnie, specifically, had changed. It was a quiet, dwindling kind of change that's difficult to mark. But somewhere along the way, without anyone's notice, the optimism, the radiant smiles, the sweet vivacity of a young girl eager to see the world, had vanished.

These realizations clash with her irritation and she stands there, chewing her lip, before querying awkwardly. "Can you just get married like that? I thought you could only do that in Vegas."

"It's a new ordinance the city council implemented six months ago," Elijah provides, pocketing one hand. "Extremely popular with the tourists."

"I'll ring for some coffee," Rebekah announces with an airy smile, clearly enjoying her brother's predicament. "And we can have the whole story over breakfast. I'm just _dying_ to hear about the proposal." She flashes a wicked smile, unfazed by Klaus' withering glare.

"We have a plane to catch," Caroline says, a hint of tartness in her voice.

The other blonde rolls her eyes. "Let me guess, to a totally _unique_ destination like Milan."

"Not that it's any of your business, but we're going to Athens," Caroline retorts, icily.

"Ooooh _Athens_. I'm sure absolutely _no one_ goes on their honeymoon."

"Can we please focus on the problem at hand-," Elijah tries but is summarily ignored.

"I'd rather be cliched and happy than elitist and alone," Caroline sniffs.

Rebekah cocks her head to the side, sweeping Stefan with a contemptuous look before narrowing her eyes. "You're lucky I'm not interested in doppelganger leftovers, darling."

"Okay, _that_ was uncalled for -," Stefan protests.

"Yes, well, the truth hurts-,"

A sudden gust of preternatural wind cuts through the burgeoning argument, rattling the windowpanes on its way out and hushing them all.

Caroline pushes blond strands off her face and sees Bonnie lowering her hand. Her friend surveys the room with that familiar, maddening mask of calm, as though she isn't wearing leaves in her hair, Klaus' shirt and an alarming number of hickeys.

"I'm going to take a shower," the witch announces, in a quiet but determined voice. "Then I'm going to eat something. And _then_ , I'm going to get a divorce."

Silence greets her announcement. Klaus speaks up, ushering her out by the elbow. "Excellent idea, love. Right this way-,"

"Let go of me. Just show me where the bathroom is."

Caroline has seen Bonnie save lives and avert disaster more times than she can count. She's known Bonnie as the rock, the savior, the eye of the storm, dependable as the setting and rising sun. _You left my wedding to get drunk with Klaus,_ she wants to shout. _You MARRIED him. You were HAPPY marrying him._

Bonnie stops and turns, her face betraying none of the turmoil that she must surely feel. She looks like the girl Caroline knows, calm and pragmatic. There's no trace of that other Bonnie, laughing in the video like any young bride.

Caroline hesitates for a moment, then rushes forward and shoves the small duffel bag of clothes at her friend.

"Bon, wait. You'll need this." she blurts.

The witch takes it slowly, then sighs and runs a hand through her tangled hair. "Thanks, Care. I'm so-"

"As soon as I get back-,"

They start and pause at the same time.

"We'll have brunch and I'll already be a divorcee." Bonnie says at last, offering a half-smile. "Go enjoy your honeymoon. One of us should."

And, with a wry little wave, she turns to walk up the stairs with Klaus behind her.

Caroline watches them go, and thinks maybe she doesn't know Bonnie at all.

* * *

Bonnie wants to cry in relief when the waterfall shower cascades over her softly limning the sore places on her skin and calming her scattered thoughts. Her relief is so great she can't even care that the beautiful, robin's egg blue bathroom with the marble counter tops, claw-foot tub and shower stall large enough to accommodate four people belongs to Klaus.

She would have showered in facilities belonging to Attila the Hun if it meant she could be clean again and away from the judgemental faces of everyone below.

The thought that Caroline is disappointed in her, both as a friend and as a maid of honor, rests uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. She still can't fathom what made her leave the reception with _Klaus_ of all people. But even these musings fade as she tilts her hair into the lush flow of water.

There's three shelves of expensive bodywash and shampoo. She squints at the labels - rose, lavender, cinnamon, coconut, almond, honey, cherry blossom - wondering if Klaus is secretly a shampoo collector, or if the luxuriant choices are for the benefit of his lovers.

Not that it matters to her.

She opens an unmarked bottle and immediately puts it back when the scent of cloves and musk hit her nose, triggering the memory of Klaus' skin. She settles on a citrusy scrub instead.

She's sighing happily at the puffy suds melting off her when a tingle passes over the nape of her neck.

"Ah, lemon verbena and mint. Excellent choice, wife."

The bathroom being an L-shaped one, he's not anywhere where he can see her. Nevertheless her consternation is swift. " _Get out!_ "

"Out of my own bathroom?"

"I'm taking a shower!"

"Yes, I know," he drawls. "But we have some things to discuss."

The precious relaxation of the shower is quickly vanishing. "Can't it wait?"

"As a matter of fact -,"

"What? Shower's too loud, can't hear you. Talk when I get out!"

"I said, perhaps I should join you and save us both time."

Bonnie splutters an indignant stream of protests.

"Surely as your husband I am allowed _some_ privileges," he mocks.

"I swear to god Klaus-,"

"Now that you _can_ hear me, we need to locate your cellphone to ensure there isn't any more _incriminating_ footage out in the world. We should start retracing our steps from last night as best we can, until our memories prove more reliable."

There is literally nothing that sounds appealing about walking around New Orleans with him trying to piece together their "wedding night" but, resigned to the fact that she has no one else to blame for this mess but herself, Bonnie voices a reluctant agreement.

At least, as far as she can tell, no one else knows about the tattoos. She could only imagine the reaction if Caroline and the others had discovered she and Klaus had gone one step further than a legal contract and entered into a magical one as well.

She closes her eyes and tries sinking into the quiet bliss of the shower again.

"Are you planning to finish sometime _this_ _century_ , witch?"

His dry voice interrupting her reverie is pinched with real irritation. She sighs. In all fairness, she supposes he's just as eager to wash up as she was, and for all his jibes he has not, in fact, violated her privacy.

Turning off the water she wraps herself in one of the fluffy guest towels and rounds the corner hesitantly. He's lounging against the sink, arms crossed. It strikes her that this looks like any couple, having a chat in between morning showers.

The thought is terrifying as a bug, and crushed just as swiftly.

"There's fruit and croissants downstairs, as well as a telephone. You're welcome to both."

"Thanks," she mutters, clutching her towel tightly around her. "Shower's all yours."

"How generous of you, _wife._ "

He starts undoing his belt, his laughter echoing in her ears as she hurries away muffling the urge to light him on fire.

* * *

Occasionally, he enjoys indulging human habits to an idiosyncratic extreme, the opulent bathroom with its exorbitant collection of soaps and shampoos being one of them. When one is immortal, the most simple daily routines have the potential to become amusing hobbies.

He finds that amusement evasive, however, as his mind runs through a list of everything he would have to accomplish in the next few days in order to assuage the madness of last night.

Find the tattoo parlor, ask them to reverse the process somehow (it's common knowledge there's no reversing marriage tattoos but he himself, far from being common, is immortal proof that _all_ magic has a loophole), Compel or kill any who had seen them together last night who would try to use the information against him (he foresees the witch objecting to this one) and, finally, file for a divorce (no doubt he could rely on her enthusiastic co-operation here).

Traces of her scent linger in the curling steam, teasing his senses in an annoying manner that makes him want to take a fly swatter to his face. What the bloody hell was he thinking _marrying_ her? He feels like a character in those terrible movies Rebekah sometimes forces him to watch. He should never have attended that blasted wedding.

"Niklaus, if I may -,"

"I am a bit busy at the moment, brother," he growls at Elijah's polite query.

"How odd, Ms. Bennett assured me on her way downstairs that you would be quite amenable to a conversation mid-shower. She _insisted_ , in fact."

He crushes the loofah in his hand. _Touche_ , witch."She was _mistaken_. Now, if you don't mind-,"

"Am I correct in assuming you have lost my cufflinks?"

Ah, he'd been wondering when Elijah would throw _that_ in his face.

"They are but temporarily misplaced-"

" _Lost_ , brother. The word you are looking for is 'lost', with the adjectives 'irresponsibly' and 'thoughtlessly' before it. In fact, all your choices last night could be so described-,"

"Devil take it Elijah, yes YES! I lost them. The bloody things are probably floating down the sewer as we speak, on their way to the bayou or an alligator's belly. Is that what you want to hear?"

His brother doesn't reply to his outburst. After a minute or two, Klaus hears his footsteps disappear slowly down the hallway.

 _Irresponsible_. _Thoughtless_.

He glances down at the gleaming mark on his chest as Elijah's words rattle in his skull.

But something else had driven his actions last night, some powerful magic, strong enough to sweep caution and judgement aside, to make him forget about old lovers and new enemies and disappointing his brother.

And after spending centuries trying to break a curse, the thought of once more being under a magical shackle is far from pleasant. How his mother would laugh, wherever she is now.

But no matter. He would break this enchantment as he had broken hers.

Fifteen minutes later he's downstairs clean and dressed. He finds Bonnie in the solarium ending a phone-call.

"I'll be home soon. Listen to Karen okay?" she pauses, smiling into the receiver. "Love you too, Dad."

She replaces the handle and meets his eyes. Wearing a light blue camisole paired with a loose white cotton skirt, silhouetted in the sunny window, she appears clean and glistening like a water sprite fresh from a lake.

 _Magic exists because we cannot bear the world as it is_ , Esther had remarked once. _It shows us different worlds, hiding around the corner._

He has never wielded magic himself, but the old masters of the Renaissance spoke in a similar vein about _chiaroscuro,_ the blending of light and dark, revealing two worlds in one frame.

And for a moment as Bonnie walks towards him in that mint-green room, among the vases full of camellias with the sunlight behind her, he sees another panel, one in which he takes her by the waist to kiss her neck and she smiles at him, there with the sunlight and the camellias and the scent of her hair.

"Klaus? Hello?"

He blinks, and the world returns to its proper place.

She's peering up at him, frowning impatiently. "Do you have a car we can use that _isn't_ stolen?"

"Oh I was about to suggest we hire a carriage to take us around town. One with bells perhaps."

She narrows her eyes. "I'm so glad you're finding the humor in this."

"You should try it sometime, _wife_." He draws out the term specifically to irritate her.

" _Don't_ call me that."

"Perhaps if you ask very nicely-,"

She scowls and huffs past him before he can finish his sentence. He watches the angry swish of her skirt as she walks away.

Magic is dangerous, can make you lose sight of your world while it traps you sure as iron and steel. And _his_ world has no place for irritable little witches nor the fanciful notions that came with them.

Klaus grabs his keys and follows her out the door.

Elijah was right. He had been thoughtless, and highly irresponsible. He needs to rid himself of this spell and quickly, before it takes any more of an insidious hold.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** You know, I originally wanted to write a heartfelt and inspiring message about TVD ending, but apart from the miraculous fact that they left Bonnie alive and free (relatively speaking) I don't think that finale deserves anything by way of commentary other than *LOUD FART NOISES* So instead I wanna take the time and thank you guys for continuing to read and support my work and the work of other Klonnie writers, and hope that this little fandom will endure far beyond the show. We've never needed canon to tell meaningful and creative stories for Bonnie Bennett, quite the opposite in fact. So here's to the BB and Klonnie, Bonkai, Stefonnie, Bamon, et al fandoms, long may we reign! I also want to shoutout my beta-bae Cait for her discerning eye and great taste in music, as well as **thefudge is grumpy** , **thehedgerider** and **lilac17** for sharing their talent and creativity with this fandom. And of course, **bonneibennett** aka Nisha for being a mermaid princess._

 ** _DISCLAIMER:_** _t_ _he views and opinions expressed in this chapter about the 1987 film "Dirty Dancing" and its soundtrack are those of the characters and do not reflect the official stance of the author who frequently enjoys re-watching the film with her mum._

* * *

 _It was a truth universally acknowledged that when Caroline Forbes set her mind on something, one either got behind her or got out of her way. The former Miss Mystic Falls could keep butter from melting in her mouth if she so chose, but Bonnie knew that behind the bright smile and manicured nails lay a steely determination that, when summoned, was terrifying to witness. And Caroline was_ _determined_ _that her wedding would take place at the historic Sauvage House in New Orleans come hell or high water (though of course she had wisely chosen a date several months prior to hurricane season). Located on a small lake island just outside the city and accessible only by boat, the restored Creole mansion was naturally sought after by everyone and their aunt for all manner of events. Having seen the ruthless efficacy - unaided by Compulsion - with which her blonde friend set about acquiring a Zuhair Murad wedding gown, managing seating arrangements for over 200 people and convincing Stefan that Greece, not his ancestral Italy, would be the ideal honeymoon location, Bonnie really shouldn't have been surprised when she discovered the lengths to which Caroline had gone to secure Sauvage House as a location for the Forbes-Salvatore nuptials._

" _You invited Klaus?" Bonnie balked, throwing off her side of the embroidered duvet to glare at her friend. "KLAUS?"_

 _Twas the night before the wedding and they were both tucked comfortably into a queen bed at one of the mansion's many suites. The lake glittered beyond french doors that circled the entire top and bottom floor of the house, occasionally tossing cool breezes their way._

 _Caroline reluctantly pushed up her silk eye-mask, her expression the very replica of when they were eighteen and Bonnie caught her finishing the last lemon-cream cupcake that they'd baked for their sleepover._ " _I was going to tell you-,"_

" _When, Care? Before or after he ate the bridal party?"_

" _He isn't going to eat anyone-,"_

" _It's KLAUS."_

 _Heaving a sigh, Caroline sat up so they were face to face. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but it was the only way I could get this place for the dates I needed. Victoria and David Beckham did their vow renewal here! And you made me promise I wouldn't Compel anyone without just cause, so-,"_

 _Bonnie looked at her like she'd grown two heads, "So you thought you'd ask Klaus? The dude who terrorized all of us and had a creepy crush on you?"_

" _I know you two don't get along-,"_

" _Don't get along-,"_

" _But he was the only one I could turn to! And he was...really nice about it, well as nice as Klaus can be. And it's not what you're thinking. Stefan and I approached him together, and he agreed to help us. Please, Bon. Don't be mad." The bride-to-be wrung her hands._ " _Pleeeeease?"_

 _Bonnie remained stony faced before her friend's entreaty. She was happy being Caroline's maid of honor, it was the natural culmination of their long friendship, but it was certainly no easy task. Combined with her duties on the Founders' Council and caring for a sick father, the past few months had been stressful and lonely. She'd been looking forward to the wedding reception, to kicking back with some champagne and good music and forgetting the responsibilities awaiting her in Mystic Falls._

 _So much for that._

" _You should have told me, so I could prepare myself," she mumbles._

" _He's not gonna challenge you to an arm wrestling contest in the middle of the reception, Bon."_

" _Do we know that? How do you know he won't strangle me behind the h_ ors d'oeuvres _while you and Stefan are having your First Dance?"_

" _One, I told Klaus you would be there. Two, it's been years since all that stuff went down in Mystic Falls. He's got bigger fish to fry, like we all do. And three, the last time you saw him you saved his life by Unlinking him."_

 _Bonnie made a noise of disbelief, folding her arms and staring at the painting of Marie Antoinette on the far wall._

" _He really gets under your skin," Caroline remarked, after a beat._

" _That's an understatement," Bonnie muttered by way of reply, picking at the delicately embroidered birds on the duvet. "That night I did the Unlinking spell... it was weird."_

" _Weird how?" Caroline's eyes grew wide and she gasped, "Oh my god, did he make a pass at you? I knew it-,"_

" _Knew what?" Bonnie demanded._

" _That he had this weird interest in you. I'd see it in his face sometimes when you were around, like he was trying to puzzle you out but enjoyed the challenge."_

" _Ugh. And no, he didn't make a pass at me."_

" _So...what did he do?"_

 _Bonnie shifted uncomfortably as memory descended upon her. She didn't like thinking about that time in her life, when she'd been half girl half foot soldier. She'd never felt more alone than sitting in that dark study exchanging barbs while she dissected the spell that would save his life. She should've been terrified and flustered, anything but calm._

 _But then, she'd never feared him, not really, not like the others did. Perhaps because she'd known that in his own way, he'd been as alone as she._

 _Afterwards he'd led her himself past the walls of expensively mounted art and lavish, empty rooms, past the bloody tableau of Damon and Rebekah's failed romance, his hand resting on the small of her back as they drifted through that marble mansion. Dancers, alone together, in a cold and silent world._

 _Bonnie flopped back onto her pillow, swallowing a strange unease that settles in her stomach, the heaviness before a storm breaks. She flung an arm over her eyes and released a sigh. "I don't wanna talk about it."_

" _Bon-,"_

" _It's okay. Really. There's like three hundred people coming, right? I probably won't even see him."_

* * *

Fortunately, her phone and purse prove easy to locate. _Un_ fortunately, it's at Gerard's, which Klaus informs her is a small bar with an exclusively supernatural clientele.

"Perhaps it's best if you wait in the car," he tells her, pausing a few feet from the door.

"What? Why?"

"Suffice it to say I am not the most popular bloke at this establishment-"

"- _shocking._ "

She's past caring how peevish she sounds. It's a warm, beautiful day in New Orleans. She should be wandering the rose and hibiscus lined streets sipping a strawberry daiquiri, pausing to admire the creamsicle-colored houses. She should be savoring these precious, precious hours away from Mystic Falls before her flight left tomorrow. Instead she's here, with Klaus, and Gerard's is only their first stop in unravelling the previous night.

His jaw clicks in annoyance. "And anyone seen _with_ me becomes equally unpopular. What's more, they become targets-,"

Bonnie rolls her eyes. "That's it? I've had a target on my back since I was sixteen and discovered I was a witch. Trust me, I can handle myself."

She tries to brush past him but he stops her before she can reach the door. His hand encircles her elbow as he towers over her, and the tattoo hidden beneath her hair tingles warmly to life.

"I am well acquainted with your methods of handling danger, and most of them if I recall end in your death. New Orleans is finally at tenuous peace, but there are still many who would seize any opportunity to enact vengeance-,"

"Let go of me-,"

"Neither of us fully understand the nature of this bond we have so foolishly entered into. All I _know_ , is that it compels me to act against my better judgement." His voice is low, almost soft. He could have been reciting poetry. "If someone were to injure you as a message to me, I cannot know what my impulse will be, and for the sake of this city and the veneer of stability my family has managed to carve out, I do not wish to find out."

He's right, she doesn't know too much about how marriage bonds work. But _something_ twines sinuously around them, pulling her down through time and memory until she can barely breathe. She's seventeen and he's holding her elbow in a dark house in a small town they both call home. She's twenty seven and a bridesmaid and he's helping her into a boat, and they're crossing a lake to leave a wedding far earlier than they should. _You coming, witch?_ He had taken hold of her elbow, and she hadn't stumbled, not one bit, when she joined him onboard. She's twenty seven and somehow his wife, and her elbow is cradled in his hand and she wants to move, blend with the currents of people walking around them and forget she'd ever met his eyes across a reception, that they'd ever crossed that lake.

Her throat feels dry, her feet suddenly unsteady. She battles an instinct urging her to sway against him in the soft afternoon, brush his mouth with her fingertips and soothe the worry she feels flowing beneath his clipped words.

"Are we clear, witch?" he asks, breaking the reverie that holds her in place.

She blinks away the fluttery warmth in her chest. "Believe me, Klaus, the last thing I want is to have _anything_ to do with you _or_ your family. Now _let go_ of me."

His hold isn't restrictive, not by any means. It's light as a feather really. But there's a weight and a promise there she doesn't dare broach.

Their eyes stay locked in a silent battle of wills before he releases her almost nonchalantly.

"Let _me_ do the talking," he instructs, as they walk through the doors.

Bonnie prepares herself to meet an army of angry, vengeful vampires. Instead, the few daytime patrons greet them with a rousing cheer, toasting their health and shouting congratulations.

They both stand frozen until one of the bartenders walks over and returns the dove-grey satin clutch containing her phone, wallet and ID all blessedly intact. Bonnie clutches her belongings like a lifeline.

"Thank you so much- Cami, right?" she manages, recalling her from the night before.

The blonde appears highly amused, "Yup. And really we should be thanking you. This place was a party last night thanks to you two."

"Oh...it was?" Bonnie questions, with a sinking dread. Her eyes land on the spotlighted karaoke stage and a host of embarrassing memories run riot in her mind. _Oh god._

Cami turns to Klaus, "I didn't know _you_ were a Patrick Swayze fan."

"The very biggest," he replies, smiling tightly. "Bonnie?"

"Right, yeah. We gotta go. Thanks for saving my purse!"

"No problem," Cami calls after them, "and I hope the video came out okay!"

* * *

He doesn't recall too much about the eighties; dreadful, dour decade that it was. But he remembers that song, having lost a wager to Rebekah that resulted in being forced to watch _Dirty Dancing_ with her. He found the movie hackneyed and cloyingly nostalgic, and the song in question seriously lacking musical quality. Cheap appeals to youthful passion didn't stir him as they did his sister. He had no use for the reckless quality of innocence nor the heedless joy of impulsive romance, save as tools of manipulation. It's what set him apart from his siblings. They would always be chasing the faded roses of their humanity, longing to feel alive again, somehow.

He was above such illusions.

The world, he'd discovered, was a drab and sinister place, but neither was there any art to be found in escapism. His siblings lived with regret, in pursuit of dreams of love and redemption. He regretted nothing, and he made of his life what he desired.

But this finely honed cynicism could not explain why he left Caroline and Stefan's wedding with the witch and rowed across a lake with her, nor lend any logic to the actions that followed. His time-honored existential philosophy could not account for why he'd taken her to Gerard's, nor why when she'd suggested taking the stage together he'd not only agreed but asked that everyone's drinks be put on his tab in exchange for him and Bonnie commanding said stage for as long as she desired.

And nothing, not all the collected lore of centuries, could explain why he'd agreed to sing _that_ song.

" _I haad the time of my life..."_

Back in the car, he lights up a cigarette as Bonnie plays the video from their time at Gerard's. He's never particularly cared for nicotine but desperate times and all that.

The phone-screen shows him and the witch dancing together onstage, singing hopelessly off-key while a sizable crowd cheers them on. Klaus sees himself bend on one knee, serenading her.

" _No I neeever felt like this before..._ ,"

He takes a long drag of his cigarette and wishes he could blot out his eyes.

The video closes on them swaying together, sharing a lingering kiss, her arms draped around his neck. The crowd hoots and applauds while he, who's never cared for gratuitous public displays of affection, continues kissing the witch, the microphone falling from his hands as he lifts her.

He lights up a second cigarette.

"Well," Bonnie says, after an awkward pause, "at least we didn't send this to anyone."

He grunts and blows smoke out the open window. Perhaps he could chain smoke his way through this travesty.

She adds, dryly. "And I guess you have a whole bar full of new friends now?"

But at what cost? He'd rather have the enemies back, thank you very much, if they came with his dignity.

He turns the engine on and pulls out into the street. "I think it's time we finally paid a visit to the lovely people at that tattoo parlor."

"You know they can't reverse the tattoos right?"

"Oh I am well aware of that." Which is why he planned to kill them individually with their own needles, record the proceedings and then video-message it to their loved ones.

"...and you also know I'm not gonna let you hurt or maim them, right?" she asks, warily, catching the grimness in his voice.

"Remind me to check 'irreconcilable differences' on the divorce papers."

He senses rather than sees her narrow-eyed stare. Being in an enclosed space with her is maddening. Even cigarette smoke can't blur the warm, citrusy scent of her. He wants her away, far away where he can't smell or see or touch her. The tattoo on his chest feels uncomfortably hot, and he's gripped by a base urge to pull over on the side of the road and just have a proper _row_ , like some blasted human couple fighting about who forgot the milk.

She remains infuriatingly silent while he parallel parks by the small alleyway off Bourbon Street.

She bustles impatiently, halfway out the car before realizing he's still finishing his cigarette. "You coming or...?"

Memory tugs at him without warning.

 _Truancy becomes her._

 _The lake is dappled silver and so is she. He watches her take the pins from her hair, one by one, and drop them into the water. Dark curls dance happily around her face, a face he finds both unfamiliar and intimate. When they reach the opposite shore she hesitates, glancing over her shoulder at the gold-lit mansion where her friends are gathered._

" _Go on, turn around and swim back to safety," he remarks dryly enough, but disappointment sticks to his tongue. He'd hoped - he can't name what he'd hoped, only that it was something renegade and bright, and he thought he'd seen it flaring in her eyes._

 _She frowns. "I left because I wanted to."_

" _Did you now?" He raises an eyebrow. "How very unlike you."_

" _What's_ that _supposed to mean? "_

" _Bonnie Bennett, best friend and maid of honor, guardian angel of the lost and the weak," he enumerates lazily, watching her bristle. "You are not exactly full of surprises, lov -,"_

 _He hadn't anticipated her moving, certainly not in his direction. But move she does, across the tiny space between them, to kiss the end of his sentence away._

 _Caught uncharacteristically off-guard, his hands remain on the sides of the boat._

 _Her lips are soft and cool, her fingers light along his jaw. He feels clear and empty as a glass jar. She moves, and he finds his mouth chasing hers. Again, and again._

 _He is full of fireflies._

He follows her into the narrow alley, sidestepping puddles and small stone altars hidden slyly in plain sight. The buildings on either side, dotted with signs offering tarot readings and herbal cures, are full of eyes. Their windows open and close as they pass, whispers of intrigue flying behind them. His mouth twists in annoyance. Bloody witches.

 _At length, his hands settle on her waist, the fingers spread wide like she's a breeze to comb through, something warm and sweet that will, inevitably, disappear._

 _He pulls her close._

 _Their mouths dance together. Touching, opening, breathing._

 _How quiet the world is. How reverent._

He rushes up the wooden stairs two at a time, funneling his frustration into the thought of wrapping his hands around the throat of whoever pierced his skin with magical ink and bound him to the witch at his side. He remembers the dusty glass door with the iron bars, the hand-painted sign that read _Crescent City Emporium and Tattoo Parlor._

 _She breaks the kiss to slip from his arms. Her smile is kittenish, daring as she climbs barefoot out of the small vessel, high-heels in one hand, trailing the gauzy hem of her dress in lakewater._

" _You coming, hybrid?"_

The door swings lazily in the afternoon, its lock and sign vanished. Klaus pushes it hard enough to dent the wall, but it's no use. The shop from last night, the shelves lined with dry herbs and pickled rat's feet and magic ink, the grimy tattooing chairs, the saints' candles guttering on the counters, all of it, is gone without a trace.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Do et me know your thoughts in the reviews. _

_*Sauvage House is a fictional place_

 _**the boat scene is my lil' tribute to the sizzling gondola scene in **thefudge's** amazing Klonnie fic  "Hell With You" which everyone should read immediately._

 _Until next time! xoxox_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** This chapter was a beast! Much thanks to my beta-bae Cait, and to Chelle who very kindly read about three versions of the same scene._

* * *

It's a curious feeling, being in love.

Watching Sophie water the plants on their little patio, Vincent isn't quite sure _happiness_ is the right word. It seems too trite, too banal to hold everything he feels for the witch who'd swept into his life like a quiet storm.

But perhaps that's the point.

Perhaps the real things, the things that count, aren't so easily described.

Ignoring his ringing cellphone, he turns his attention back to the thickening, fragrant rum sauce on the stove. Banana-cream french toast is keeping warm in the oven, soon to accompany scrambled eggs with bacon.

It's been a long time since he's wanted to cook for someone again. For a while after Eva's death, he let his love for cooking fall by the wayside. It had been too painful to move around the kitchen mixing spices and flavors and recalling how she loved to stick her fingers in the sauce and steal bites under his nose.

"That smells like heaven." Closing the patio door behind her, Sophie Devereaux approaches the kitchen-island and Vincent takes his time appreciating the way her green silk robe falls around her.

"Put your eyes back in your head, Griffith" she says, taking a seat at the table and crossing her long legs.

He licks rum sauce off his fingers, "Oh I like them right where they are."

She glances at his glowing phone. "You gonna pick that up?"

"Nope. This Regent is officially off the clock."

Amidst the arrival of the Mikaelsons and the flaring tensions between werewolves and vampires, the witches of New Orleans had organized themselves into small communities, each with an elected Regent. It was not an enviable position by any means, requiring one to alternate between negotiator, protector and communicator at the drop of a hat. And after years of a life where he was responsible for no one but himself, Vincent hadn't exactly jumped at the opportunity. In fact, he'd actively resisted any attempts to sway him into loyalty, trying to play all sides and no side at all in his desire to remain a free agent. All of that changed when Davina, a young witch from the city, was taken and killed by an ancient coven that, had he been more vigilant, would never have taken root in the Quarter. With Sophie's help they'd found and ousted the coven and restored a semblance of order to the many factions. He and Sophie were both chosen as Regents, and it wasn't long before their tense comradeship grew into something more.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure they can handle it without interrupting brunch," he adds, taking the sauce off the stove.

Sophie's phone starts ringing next. She reaches for the device and Vincent groans, coming around to take her in his arms. "Come on babe, we talked about this: no work on Sundays."

"A Regent doesn't get days off," she reminds him gently. They've argued about her workaholic tendencies before. After so many years being solely responsible for her coven's safety, Sophie balked at the idea of delegating.

She glances at the screen, then gives him a pleading look. " It's Moira..."

"Great," he mumbles. The bawdy old witch had nothing better to do than snitch on the neighbors, but her eagle eye also made her an invaluable resource for Regents. "This better not be like the time her rooster escaped and she had nine different covens form a search party."

Sophie swallows a giggle. "Hello? Moira? Yes I'm here...,"

He huffs, dropping his head on her shoulder.

Sophie stiffens, "He's doing _what?_ "

Vincent groans again. He's pretty sure he heard Moira say two words guaranteed to destroy his plans for a lazy, peaceful morning: _Klaus Mikaelson_.

"Of course of course. Vincent will be right over." she hangs up.

"Guess what babe," Sophie sighs, stroking his neck. "Everyone's favorite Mikaelson is tearing up the communal space off Bourbon Street."

"I changed my mind. I'll take the rooster."

* * *

It's like watching a hurricane go from category one to four in the blink of an eye.

One second they're both staring at the empty space where the tattoo shop used to be. The next, Klaus is blurring around the room in a fury. He began by punching a hole in the wall, then several. Plaster dust and bits of paint swirl like smog and still he continues, unleashing a storm of frustrated rage on the small enclosure where, the night previous, they'd gotten themselves magically married.

"Stop! STOP!"

Her cries fall on deaf ears, bouncing off the blank walls. Bonnie feels like she's losing her mind. This is the place, yet it's completely cleared of any evidence of magical tattoo making. It's almost like it never happened at all.

Except she'd seen the marriage certificate and wedding video with her own eyes. Except she remembers enough of their night together to know it was real.

Part of her wants to run screaming through the street. The other half wishes she could join Klaus in his rampage.

But recalling that impulsiveness is what started all this, Bonnie tries a different approach. Standing her ground, she summons a clear, strong voice: "Klaus, this isn't helping." She waits for him to heed her words.

The hurricane continues unabated. Now he's ripping the plaster apart with his bare hands.

"Klaus, STOP!"

She taps him gently with her magic, hoping to nudge him to his senses. Instead he storms up to her, eyes blazing amber.

"Witch," he spits, "this is all _your_ fault."

" _Excuse_ me?"

He points a finger in her face. "You did something, that glass of champagne you gave me - You wove some kind of spell-,"

She swats his finger away. "Really? This again?"

"Don't act innocent, love. We both know you have a nasty history of inconveniencing me-,"

"Yes by trying to kill you not _marrying_ you!"

"Right now I'd rather you succeeded at the former," he growls.

"Me too." She seethes, clenching her fists. "Now stop wrecking this place."

An infuriating smile dances across his lips. "Make me-"

"Don't call me th-,"

"- _wife._ "

She means to keep the higher ground, to walk away and leave him to his childish tantrum. But as far as nasty habits went, Klaus had a way of pulling her down to his level against all better judgement.

She spits the incantation like a bullet, throwing him clean across the room.

She only has a second to appreciate the thud of him hitting the wall before he's up and charging at her. She tosses him again, this time following up with a volley of aneurysms that bowl him over. His angry roar makes her giddy. A flick of her wrist and his arm breaks in three places.

She advances, magic singing through every cell in her body. Somewhere in the long months of caring for her father and playing peacemaker at Council meetings she'd forgotten how much she missed this.

* * *

 _The relief she feels leaving the reception for the open corridor is momentary. Lake water surrounds her like an obsidian mirror, a serene kind of power that doesn't mock or taunt. That requires no justification for its existence._

 _Caroline is looking for her, she's certain. They're about to throw the bouquet soon, and send off the happy couple on their little decorated yacht. She's happy for her friend, truly. Seeing her beaming with joy on Stefan's arm is worth the needling questions from nosy acquaintances - And when is_ _ **your**_ _special day happening? But you and Jeremy made such a nice couple! You're too pretty to be single! - the cloying smiles of girls she knew from high school whose hands now sparkle with uniform diamonds, the leering faces of their husbands-to-be._

 _Being Elena and Caroline's inconspicuous friend, the quiet and steadfast eye in the storm of their lives, was a role she'd never shirked. Not when Caroline was devastated after her breakup with Tyler and practically lived on her couch for three months. Not when Stefan came to her for companionship after Elena left him for Damon. Nor when, months later, Damon and a newly-turned Elena skipped town leaving a trail of bodies and a mess she was still trying to clean up with the Council behind. Elena sent her drunken postcards from places like Mexico and the Bahamas, and she replied to each one in between driving Rudy to his doctor's appointments. Caroline and Stefan fell in love, and she dutifully cheerlead them through the highs and lows of a blossoming relationship._

 _She'd read a poem in school once, about a woman trapped in the middle of a lake. She tried to escape and got caught in a storm. She died before reaching that other shore. Her little boat became a coffin._

 _Bonnie curves her fingers on the wooden rail, nudging the tip of her shoe between the balusters. She closes her eyes, tastes flight on her lips._

" _It is usually the bride that commits suicide on the wedding day, love." His voice mocks her softly from the shadows. "Although admittedly, this is a clever way to steal the show."_

 _Her hands tremble with anger. He'd robbed her of her solitude's charm, made it something cheap and maudlin._

" _Go away, Klaus."_

" _Oh I intend to, soon as I locate the groundskeeper's boat," he says, moving to stand beside her. "But first, about your little remark to me earlier." The champagne flute she'd given him is empty between his fingers. He toys with the slender glass almost absently. She'd felt very bold indeed when she placed it in front of him with a breezy "Here, you look like you need this," before slipping away. She doesn't feel that rush of confidence now but she tries anyway, lifting her chin and eyeing him squarely._

" _What about it?"_

 _He returns her gaze in a cool, piercing manner. "I find your condescension amusing, as though you aren't every bit as bored and miserable as I."_

 _She hates how easily he takes the wind out of her prideful sails. "I'm nothing like you."_

 _There's a smile in his voice, the smile of a tiger scenting blood in the dark. "And yet here we are, both looking for a means of escape."_

 _A breeze flutters her dress, silken ripples on a lake, like the promise of transgression. A broken mirror, a stolen boat. She tightens her grip on the bannister. "Go away," she repeats._

 _He doesn't go away. He steps closer, crowds her against the railing, trails his eyes along the length of her body. It's not a lecherous assessment but a knowing one. Somehow, it feels more intimate. "Do I_ _ **bother**_ _you so?" he asks, recalling the last time they had been in each other's company. "Is that why you are trembling?"_

" _I'm going back inside." She's met with the resistance of his arm curving around her silk-clad waist. He taps her cheek with the champagne flute._

" _Why did you give me this?"_

" _Because I hate champagne," she says bluntly. He looks surprised, like he'd been expecting some profound and dazzling reason._

" _Do you now?" he muses, a speculative gleam in his eye._

 _They are pressed together like a couple on the dance floor. A few adjustments and they could fall quite nicely into a waltz._

" _It's just glorified white wine with bubbles," she says. "I've always hated it, and between menu planning and the rehearsal dinner and the reception if I never taste another drop of this stupid..._ _ **soda wine**_ _it'll be too fucking soon."_

 _She is startled at her own vehemence. Then, an elatedness creeps in. God it felt good to speak her mind, even about something as trivial as champagne. Weddings, she realizes, are uniquely unsuitable for telling the truth._

 _Klaus grins, lapping up her scorn with relish. "Come with me."_

" _What?"_

" _Let's go someplace we can get a real drink, see the real New Orleans."_

 _She balks. "I-I can't just leave...I'm the maid of honor."_

 _He cocks an eyebrow, "The maid of honor who loathes champagne and seemed ready to jump into the lake?" He glances down at her hand that's resting on his elbow, like she could ward him off. "Why, you've even brought your purse."_

 _Bonnie flushes, wants to insist he's wrong. She doesn't need to escape, she doesn't need to do anything except go back inside and mask herself with a smile._

" _Go away, Klaus," she repeats, quietly._

 _He shrugs, relinquishing his grasp and sauntering down the corridor, towards the stairs leading to the docks. She watches his tall figure disappearing into the violet night, feverishly, the way a shipwrecked passenger gazes at driftwood. Bonnie hurries to stand atop the stairs. Perhaps...perhaps if she watched him leave, she could be content. Perhaps her restlessness would go with him._

 _His steps are elegant and careless, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He barely pauses to turn his head._

" _You coming, witch?"_

 _It's a daring taunt. He's challenged her. He's always challenged her. And she's always burned to prove him wrong._

 _She gathers up her dress, flies down the stairs on a wing of silk_

* * *

She takes too long to gloat in her momentary advantage. Before she can strengthen her spell he's slammed her into the wall, hands pinning her shoulders. They breathe hard, eyes locked in a furious contest, like duelists who've tasted first blood.

Bonnie sets his sleeve on fire and tries to escape his hold. They twist around in a violent dance, Klaus beating his arm against the wall to quell the flames while she struggles like a bird in a net. She manages to twist most of her body away from him and hiss a quick incantation to push him off.

It _almost_ works.

Klaus wraps a foot around her ankle, the spell hits, and they tumble to the floor. She lands on her back, he on his knees. The contact with ground shifts something in them both. She can't quite explain it, but his growl makes her shudder with a peculiar alarm. They've gone too far, they always go too far. He's crawling towards her like a jungle cat, except he is far from a _natural_ predator. There is nothing natural about his gait.

Bonnie tries scooting back on her elbows but he's already upon her. Her sandaled foot lands on his chest. Magic and adrenaline has her heart galloping. He halts, looking at the leg and thigh exposed by her skirt. There's marks there, bruises and bites, that seem to burn with memory.

His eyes close, hand wrapping around her ankle. She thinks, for a second, that this mad battle-high will taper off.

She's wrong.

A swift tug and she's under him, pinned by the weight of his body, her legs thrown carelessly wide. His eyes have returned to blue but his face is still fierce, feral. Feeling in that moment too outraged, too blindly furious for magic, Bonnie slaps him. _Hard_.

His face whips to the side, not because she's strong enough, but because he leans into the blow. Still, her hand stings with satisfaction at his reddened cheek. She aims again but finds both wrists pinned above her head. She struggles and snarls, wishing she had claws of her own.

Klaus smiles that tigerish smile, having torn her again from her high, aloof ground, down to the dust and dirt with him. She sags a little, panting.

"Better?" he mocks, voice still gravelly.

She gives him a venomous a look. " _Phasmatos_ -,"

But his mouth cuts short the rest of her incantation.

* * *

It was the only way to stop the incantation being spoken. She may no longer have the power to kill him, but he didn't fancy the hair being burned off his head.

One must make such decisions in the heat of battle.

He kisses her hard, lips taking fierce possession of hers, allowing not a single word to slip between. She fights him of course, in the raging, audacious way she's always fought him. Her body squirms and writhes in protest, and he is momentarily distracted enough to loosen his grip on her hands. When he swiftly re-tightens his hold she makes a muffled sound of frustration against his mouth and twists like a furious lynx. He takes her upper lip between his teeth. A thumb finds her hipbone and pushes down.

Only, he who's always been a step ahead of his enemies hadn't thought past muting the incantation on her lips.

And sober as he is, he's starting to feel drunk on memory.

 _They hadn't fought each other last night, their moments of wanton fury being reserved instead for things that got in the way of touch. Like his undershirt she'd nearly clawed off him. The lace band of her panties he'd snapped in frustration. All those endless pearl buttons on her dress, scattered on the forest floor. She'd laughed and gasped when he rent the bodice in half. They'd been real pearls too, lucent little things cultivated for delicacy. It didn't matter, nothing mattered more than her skin warm and supple in his hands. She was rippling and riverine and he wanted no boat, no oar, no raft, no shelter. Nothing, between him and her._

In fighting her he'd only grown entangled in her web. Her hip curved perfectly for his hand. The warm scent of her everywhere. Her mouth like pomelo, the magic seeded on her tongue. She, Circe, and he her vengeful beast.

"Klaus, someone's... _mmpf_ \- !"

He swallows the angry sounds in her throat, lifting her hips off the ground, locking their bodies together. She doesn't bite him, doesn't yield to that indignity. He pretends to break the kiss, only to snag her lips again, and again, granting her a small taste of triumph before seizing the upper hand. A savage lust takes hold of him to push her further, punish the power she holds over him, make her come apart.

She makes another breathless attempt. " _Klaus_ -,"

The sound of his name on her lips travels every inch of his spine.

Unfortunately, the next voice he hears belongs to someone else. It douses him like a bucket of ice water.

"What _the hell_ is going on here?"

* * *

If someone had told Sophie Devereaux that she and Vincent would one day sit down at a brunch table with Klaus Mikaelson and the witch he's apparently married, she would've laughed and complimented them on a vivid imagination.

As it stands, the Original Hybrid and his wife are both sulking in their respective places - Bonnie, in a chair at the dining table and Klaus holding up the wall - while Vincent merrily pours everyone a cup of coffee.

"Would you stop bloody whistling?" Klaus growls at Vincent.

"This is my house and I'll whistle if I damn please. It's not every day I get to entertain a newlywed couple."

Sophie tries and fails to hide her grin while Klaus glowers further.

"We're so sorry about the damage to the property," the diminutive Bennett witch speaks quietly. "I'll help fix it. And...sorry for interrupting your Sunday brunch with this. It's all his fault."

"So, in addition to being a complete _hellcat_ , you are also a liar-,"

Sophie is amused to see how quickly fire emerges behind the witch's calm facade. She whirls on the hybrid without an ounce of fear.

" _What_ did you call me?"

"A complete hellc-,"

"Now now, no fighting at brunch _lovebirds_ ," Vincent cuts off the budding argument. Sophie exchanges a knowing look with him before they both burst into loud laughter.

"Are you quite finished?" Klaus demands.

She wipes her eyes. "Bonnie, I hardly know you, but I know you deserve better."

"Thanks..."

"Oh, cut the bloody sentiments." Klaus interrupts. "How do we get rid of these tattoos? There's bound to be a loophole, there always is with magic."

Vincent looks up from pouring sauce over his french toast. "Do you two know anything about marriage tattoos?"

"Just that they're permanent," Bonnie says, looking uncomfortable.

Sophie cocks her head, "That's all? You didn't get 'the talk' about marriage tattoos from your mom soon as you were old enough to date?"

The Bennett witch sits up straighter with a look of defensive pride. "My mom isn't really in the picture. I'm mostly a "self-taught" witch." She rolls her eyes. "And, ironically, marriage tattoos weren't high on my Need-to-Know list."

Sophie raises an eyebrow."A self-taught witch _and_ you almost killed Klaus Mikaelson? I'm impressed."

"I am standing right here-," the hybrid grouses.

"Very impressed," Vincent echoes, looking over the young witch. Sophie exchanges another glance with him. Wedded to a Mikaelson or not, New Orleans could use a witch of her caliber.

Sophie sprinkles cinnamon in her coffee and eyes the couple again. "Our ancestors devised these tattoos for one purpose: making arranged marriages work."

Bonnie looks pale. "So...they make people fall in love?"

She shakes her head, "Magic can't make anyone fall in love. There's limits to its power, and the ancestors respected that."

Something flickers across the younger witch's face, but it disappears quickly. "So...what can it do?"

"The tattoos heighten physical attraction and loosen your inhibitions...for a time. It gives the couple a 'honeymoon phase', gets the marriage started with a bang." Sophie thinks back to her mother's stories. "Some folks say they come up with the idea of marriage marks to end a war between two rival covens."

Klaus makes a derisive noise. Bonnie ignores him, giving Sophie her full attention."So they aren't permanent?" she asks, with visible relief.

"No, they're not. Eventually the magic wears off, but by that time the couple can at least tolerate each other." Sophie adds wryly, "Or there's a baby on the way, succession is ensured, and everyone can rest easy."

Vincent snorts, "I have aunts that've threatened to tattoo me in my sleep if I didn't give them grandbabies soon."

Sophie feels her mouth drop open. "Okay...so that settles it. We're doing Thanksgiving with _my_ folks."

Klaus rolls his eyes. "Well now that we've arrived at _that_ momentous decision..."

Sophie cuts him a look, but her usual distaste is tempered when she notices evidence of scorching on his left sleeve that is undoubtedly the result of battle magic. She grins into her mug. She's starting to like Bonnie Bennett more by the minute.

Bonnie clasps her hands around her own cup of coffee. "How long does this 'honeymoon phase' last?"

"Three months," Vincent supplies.

"Why three?" Bonnie asks.

"Three is the number of possibility and choice." Vincent points his fork at the gold triskelion on the back of her neck. "That's why all marriage tattoos have some kind of triplicate design."

Bonnie rubs her nape, looking cautiously relieved. "So three months? After that it's over? The tattoos go away?"

"Not on their own, no," Sophie says, apologetically.

"Of course not. Bloody witches," Klaus mutters, earning him a glare from all three in the room.

Sophie turns to Bonnie again, "Anyway. You have to find the person who tattooed you and get them to remove the mark. It's kind of like going to the courthouse you got married in to file for a divorce."

"More like an annulment," Vincent mutters.

She adds, seeing the gleam of another question in Bonnie's face. "And you can't get them removed _before_ the three months are up. Not if...,"

She trails off, looking at Vincent for help. He busies himself with a second helping of french toast and avoids her eyes. She nudges him with her foot.

"What is it?" Bonnie asks, glancing between them both.

Vincent stays focused on his plate, ignoring her escalating kicks. _Dammit Vin_.

"For Hades' sake woman, out with it," Klaus growls.

Sophie sighs, tapping her mug delicately. "You can't get them removed before the three months are up if the marriage has been... consummated."

The word floats and hovers in the air. Bonnie's slender arms wrap around herself, as though warding off the truth.

* * *

It's Klaus who breaks the silence, moving to stand behind Bonnie. "Who does that shop space belong to?"

"It's communally owned," Vincent informs him. "A space for any visiting witches to use when they need it. I'm sorry to say your tattoos could've been done by anyone."

"And before you say anything else," Sophie begins in a firm voice, "we're not gonna help you terrorize the covens looking for answers."

The hybrid smirks, resting his hands on the back of Bonnie's chair."I hardly think your help is necessary. In case you haven't noticed, I have a capable witch on my side. Self taught and quite impressive."

Bonnie snorts, shifting away. "What happened to 'hellcat'?"

"A term of endearment, love."

" _Right_." She rolls her eyes. "And anyway, I'm going back to Mystic Falls tomorrow."

"Like bloody hell you are."

"It's not up for discussion, Klaus."

Sophie sips her coffee. Vincent chuckles into his.

Bonnie rises smoothly, gathering her purse and paying no attention to the hybrid. "Thank you both for the information. I'm sorry we had to meet like this... You've been so helpful; there isn't much in the way of witches where I'm from."

"Well there's a whole city full of them here," Vincent remarks, dryly. To Sophie's surprise, he scribbles his number on a napkin and hands it to Bonnie. "If you ever fancy being introduced to some of the covens, give us a call next time you're in Louisiana."

"Oh... thank you." She smiles, clearly moved by their offer.

"Witch, if you mean to flounce off home before we've sorted out this mess-"

Bonnie's smile disappears. "I already said it's not up for discussion-,"

"Like hell it isn't-"

Sophie watches them go - arguing all the while - with a tinge of wistfulness. There's a grace and dignity to Bonnie that reminds her of witches from the old families. Young as she is, she's clearly seen more than her fair share of life. And this entanglement with Klaus Mikaelson will no doubt test her even more.

She waits until the door closes behind the couple before turning to her boyfriend. "Weren't you complaining that too many people have your phone number?"

He shrugs, "I felt bad for the kid."

"Man," Sophie muses after a few more sips of coffee, "all the times we've gone head to head with Klaus Mikaelson. All those plots and curses, when we should've just tried marrying him to a local witch."

Vincent grimaces. "Name one local witch in her right mind that would agree to that."

"...point taken."

* * *

She hurries away from the apartment building with Klaus snapping at her heels.

"Witch, do not presume to walk away from me-",

"Oh I'm not presuming."

Unfortunately, striding ahead of someone much taller than you is doomed to failure. For every corner she turns and street she crosses, she hears his footfall behind her, close as a shadow.

He snorts. "Are you trying to _walk_ back to Mystic Falls?"

She swallows a tart retort. The last thing they need is to get into another fight. Her head is throbbing from the strong output of magic. Her lips feel raw. She can still taste cigarettes and spearmint on her tongue.

"If I have to, yes."

He drops the facade of trailing behind her. An arm takes her waist, and she's pressed to his torso. It happens so quickly it's almost a dance. She thinks how they must look like lovers to the people around them. But his hold, casual enough to the observer, feels like a barricade.

He takes hold of her chin, forcing her gaze up. "What in that miserable little town so urgently demands your attention, hmm? It can't be the doppelganger, last I heard she and Damon were drunk in some Parisian gutter. The Lockwoods have relocated, and Caroline is on her honeymoon. So tell me, what lost cause are you championing this time?"

She looks away, chewing the inside of her cheek. It's not fair. She didn't want to give him any more of herself. He's already taken more than she intended to yield. He has _no_ right to anything else.

"Whatever or whoever it is, I am sure I can _persuade_ them to spare you for three months-,"

"My dad has Alzheimer's."

He frowns. She can tell he's rifling through his brain, narrowing down the list of human ailments he's heard of _this_ century. "Alzheimer's...,"

"It's a degenerative brain disease that causes severe dementia," she adds sharply. "I don't know how much time he has left, so no Klaus, I'm not about to spend three months away from him chasing down some magical tattoo artists."

People move and push past them as the sky softens to grey. His eyes search her face, head tilted to the side like he's assembling a puzzle.

"And I suppose you are his only caretaker."

And just like that, they're back on that balcony on Sauvage, and he's taken the measure of her life with an ease that borders on cruelty. Bonnie shuts her eyes. This trip was her one chance at a brief holiday, instead she's landed in a another mess that needs attending. Another lake she's trapped in the middle of. No matter how she tries, her wings are always clipped.

 _She remembers climbing out of that boat after she kissed him, dizzy with rebellion. It all seems like a dream now. Running through those woods in her pearl-buttoned dress. She'd always been so careful with her clothes, much less something like a bridesmaid gown. But when he'd caught her, torn the delicate bodice, she'd reveled in his hunger, partaken of it like wine. She'd wanted him to chase and catch and kiss her. She'd wanted to ruin her dress._

She takes a breath, a second to remember where and who she is. "Look, you don't need my help finding those witches. I'll be right back here in three months so we can get the tattoos removed. For now I just...I just want to enjoy the rest of my day off, okay? So please...please just let me."

There's no boat this time, no heady rush of escape. Klaus releases her as smoothly as he'd taken hold. When she opens her eyes he's gone, there's no shadow, and the faces surrounding her belong to strangers.

* * *

It's a curious feeling, being in love.

Sophie had spent years running from it, scrupulously avoiding any hint of that giddiness, that loss of control. Too much depended on her keeping a level head on her shoulders.

But Vincent hadn't swept her off the ground, hadn't thrown her life into chaos as she'd feared. He'd steadied her, given her something to lean on. And if there were moments she felt a little lighter on her feet, like maybe gravity wasn't pulling as hard, well, she'd learned how to lean into those too.

Lying tangled up with him while the afternoon rain beads their window, she feels a bit of that lightness now, the relief of not having all the answers.

His fingers trail up and down her back. "So, those tattoos..."

"Hmm?"

"You sure left a few things out," he chuckles.

The "few things" being that the honeymoon phase had an unpleasant side, particularly if the couple were apart from each other. Moodiness and morose bouts of yearning, along with heightened emotional resonance, were the side effects of trying to circumvent the pull of the magic.

The ancestors were quite ruthless in their way.

She shrugs, straddling him. The tangled covers slip off their bare skin, and he hums in satisfaction when his hands settle on her ass.

Sophie bends down, her hair falling like a curtain, like a raincloud.

Vincent arches into her. She brushes his mouth with hers. "Some things are better learned from experience."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** So I hope this chapter didn't feel too info-dumpy! I rewrote this an insane amount of times. Also, you guys, I truly adore this story and love writing it, so thank you for your support. Please let me know your thoughts in the reviews! _

_And, if you're hankering for more Klonnie, go read "The Land of Milk and Honey" by LittleWingx and leave her lots of reviews so she'll update soon._


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** Please see end of chapter for notes._

* * *

Rebekah finds Elijah in what's become his usual spot: the greenhouse.

He'd built it two years ago, citing a need for a place he could retreat into when "the family was behaving abominably", which everyone knew as an euphemism for "when _Niklaus_ is behaving abominably."

She picks her way beneath the wide lush leaves to where her brother is perched on a stool in his shirtsleeves delicately trimming an orchid, setting down one of two glasses of blood she'd brought from the kitchen.

"Thank you," he murmurs, carefully removing a stalk before wiping his hands on a rag and picking up his glass. "I thought I heard Niklaus return already. It would appear divorce proceedings are remarkably expedient these days."

She grins, taking a sip. "I wouldn't know, but he returned minus the witch and...his left sleeve. Looks like she burned it off."

"I'm glad to see Miss Bennett has lost none of her spirit," he says, dryly, examining the leaf of a monstera deliciosa.

"Too bad she lost some of her wit last night and married him. Poor girl."

Elijah sets his glass down and and returns to pruning the orchids. Rebekah watches him wondering for the umpteenth time how both he and Nik could stand hobbies that require so much stillness and concentration. It seems dreadfully dull having to sharpen all five of your preternatural senses into one laborious task. She herself much preferred dancing or movies or long walks to clear the mind, and thankfully Marcel feels the same.

"If I were you, I would be thanking Miss Bennett," her brother replies. "Niklaus is going to be far too distracted to uncover your secret plans to flee the country."

"I'm not _fleeing_ anything," she retorts. "I'm...eloping, because it's much simpler."

Elijah raises an eyebrow in lieu of comment.

"And anyway, it won't be a secret once we're married in Provence. Nik is welcome to visit us anytime."

"An offer I am certain he will accept _graciously_ ," Elijah remarks.

Rebekah makes a face. "I'm going to tell him, alright? But he's got such a bloody bee in his bonnet about me and Marcel...,"

She trails off, considering Elijah's earlier words. Nik's been a right curmudgeon since they'd returned to New Orleans. Once the thrill of establishing themselves anew in the city had passed, he'd grown moody and restless, chafing against the same leisure she and Elijah embraced with relief. After centuries living a paradoxical existence - immortal but hunted, powerful but fugitive - the freedom that came from Esther and Mikael's proper demise had bowled them over. But none of them felt the change more keenly than Nik. He'd spent so long as the defiant half-son fighting for his right to exist, he had no clue how to live any other way. She recalls the young man he'd once been, his playful nature and open heart, his dreams of travel, his little stash of charcoal sketches. He had his own studio now, and the means to travel where and when he might. But that wide-eyed, impulsive nature was gone.

Although...

She reconsiders the wedding video on her phone. Bonnie's giddy laughter. The grin on Nik's face as he twirled his new bride in the air. The shock of the marriage notwithstanding, she'd seen a spark, something like a hint of his old self.

Perhaps Elijah had a point. This could be the answer to her dilemma. If Nik harbors any regard for the witch...

Elijah regards her sternly, like he's already guessed her intentions. "The look on your face does not bode well, sister."

"You tend to your orchids, brother." She pats his shoulder with perfect innocence. "I'll see to Nik. Poor thing probably needs some advice."

"Rebekah," he warns. "Might I remind you the _situation_ with him and Miss Bennett is volatile enough without you interfering-,"

"Oh relax, 'Lijah." She says, sauntering off under the areca palms and fiddle-leaf figs. "I'm just going to ask him about his night. _If_ he decides to see the witch again, it certainly won't be _my_ fault."

" _Rebekah_ ,"

She waves with an impish little smile and closes the greenhouse door behind her.

* * *

If she's learned anything from her brothers and their stodgy hobbies, it's biding one's time.

She waits until after supper and finds Nik holed up in his studio mixing paint, surrounded by a number of finished canvasses constituting the collection that's occupied his time for the past three years: a series of meditations on New Orleans, its people and its buildings, its graveyards and houses, its past and present, the hurricane-rutted roads, the hibiscus blooming through wire fences.

The last piece, nearly complete, looms behind him in a blend of grey and purple, a twilight haze in the center of which, if one gazes long enough, the fluid figure of a man in a striped suit grows subtly visible. It's an image rendered with enough skill as to approach optical illusion, but in the right angle, with the right knowledge, the motif is recognizable as Papa Legba, Guardian of the Crossroads.

Under normal circumstances, her brother's mood is calmer and more expansive when he's about to finish a painting. A sharp contrast to the scowl he wears now, and the savage way he's dabbing at the pots of oil paint.

She decides to tread cautiously. "You're almost finished with the collection. It's quite good."

"I'm in no mood for facetiousness, sister. What do you want?" he growls, not taking his eyes off the paint.

 _Touchy_. But, nothing she hadn't dealt with before. Having brothers for a millenia taught you patience, if it taught you nothing else. "Actually, I came to apologize," she says very penitently indeed. "For earlier, showing the video like that. It was rude of me."

He grunts. "Reached your credit limit again, have we? Call the banker, or take my card. Just don't bother me with the details."

Reigning in her irritation for the greater cause, Rebekah sits down on the settee and folds her hands. "I'll have you know I'm being sincere. I'm sorry for the jibes, but you would do no less if our positions were reversed," she points out. "Remember that time I stepped in a cow pat trying to get Frederick's attention?"

"Yes, what a pity video phones weren't around in our youth," he drawls. But his expression eases somewhat.

She continues, looking down at her nails, "I take it you and the witch argued about the terms of divorce?"

He grunts again. "In a manner of speaking."

"What, is she suing you for alimony or something?" she asks lightly, sensing a deeper truth to his agitation. Encounters with the Bennett witch, no matter their nature, never failed to leave an impression on her brother. Come to think of it, it's strange they hadn't fallen into bed earlier.

He continues stirring paint with a darkening frown.

"What is it?" she cajoles. "You don't actually _care_ about her, surely?"

"Don't be ludicrous."

"Then why do you look like someone's shoved a stick up your arse?"

He swears, tossing his brush across the table. Jaw locking in frustration, he pulls the neckline of his shirt to reveal a glistening, tri-pointed green tattoo high on the left side of his chest.

"Is that- ?"

He mutters under his breath, "A bloody marriage tattoo. Yes."

It takes all Rebekah's self-control to keep the corners of her mouth from curling. No wonder he and the witch stank of magic that morning.

She knew about marriage tattoos - what they did, how they worked - having developed a curious obsession with them as a young girl. She'd pestered her mother with questions and, having exhausted Esther's patience, taken her curiosity to Ayanna as well. Esther had been disdainful of how the magic trammeled you to your baser desires, while Ayanna had gently assured her that, when the right man came along, she wouldn't need any magic to seal the deal.

"Well?" Klaus grouses. "Are you going to say anything?"

She schools her face. "Who tattooed the both of you?"

He snaps a paintbrush in frustration. "That's the bloody problem. Neither of us remember what they looked like. Whoever they are, they don't want to be found."

 _This gets better and better._

She has to refrain from rubbing her hands together in glee. Between searching for the witch or warlock responsible and experiencing the effects of the tattoo, her brother would be well and truly distracted.

Rebekah summons a curious look. "Can't Bonnie help you trace the source of the magic? It might take a while, especially if they've tattooed others, but-,"

"The witch is returning to Mystic Falls tomorrow," he informs her curtly.

"And you plan to let her?"

He tosses the broken paintbrush into the bin. "Short of imprisoning her in our basement - which I had considered - I doubt she'll be dissuaded. Her father is ill with something called Alzheimer's disease. It's a-,"

"A degenerative condition that affects the brain, causing dementia and eventually death," she finishes smoothly. "Terrible affliction."

He looks more than a little taken aback.

She flips her hair with a dash of triumph. "I keep telling you and Elijah how informative public television is, but do you listen?"

He scoffs. "In any case, she won't stay unless I force her hand, which would defeat the purpose of procuring her help. But Vincent is far too busy, Sophie would never deign to help me without coercion, and I don't fancy dragging anyone else into this -," he waves his hand agitatedly, " -business."

"Let Bonnie go," she suggests, reexamining her nails with the right amount of nonchalance.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I've known girls like her," she continues. "They balk if you get in their way but truthfully, they don't know how to ask for help."

"Are you suggesting I relocate to Mystic Falls and help nurse her dying father?"

She taps her the sofa arm with her nails thoughtfully. "No. This is what you do: send her off with as much care and concern as you can muster, tell her you'll handle all the details and to not worry about a single thing. Be _charming_."

Klaus wears a look of distaste. "Play the dutiful husband? Why? To what purpose?"

"Because, you daft prick, of a little thing called _reverse psychology._ "

"Another insight from the archives of public television?" he asks with a scowl, but gestures for her to continue.

"It'll catch her off guard. She's used to being the fix-it girl, she won't know what to do if _someone else_ is doing the fixing. Give it a few weeks and she'll be chomping at the bit trying to help you."

He looks skeptical. Rebekah rises with a shrug. " _Or_ , you can proceed as you usually do like a great bull in a china shop. It's none of my concern."

She slips away, quietly relishing the troubled look on her brother's face and congratulating herself on seeds well planted. She might make a gardener yet.

As soon as she's in her room, she dials Marcel.

"Hey there, beautiful," his warm easy voice flows over her. "How's your night?"

A smile dawns across her face. "Just fine, darling. But you'll _never_ guess what Nik's gotten into-,"

* * *

Bonnie surveys her luggage in the early morning light of the small suite. Her clothes are packed away in the medium sized brown suitcase, her purse resting on top. She's dressed in her favorite travel jeans and cardigan, with the blue camisole from yesterday. Her room service bagel and fruit sits half-eaten next to the bed from which her bare feet dangle.

There's several hours until her flight leaves New Orleans and she's oddly restless. The relief she expected to feel at putting miles between herself and the events of two nights ago is markedly absent, and a dull loneliness throbs in its place.

She'd made herself a small list of things to see and do. Yesterday - the day she and Klaus had spent learning there's frustratingly little they could do about their predicament - was supposed to involve botanical gardens and beignets and museums. She's supposed to have a suitcase crammed with tourist paraphernalia and a phone full of memorable selfies. Instead, she had a magical tattoo, a ridiculous video singing karaoke with Klaus, and a head full of wild and disconcerting memories.

Her stomach rumbles, prompting her to take another bite of the bagel. She chews slowly, half-heartedly.

At least she'd managed to try crawfish during her visit.

* * *

 _The booth is so small that she's practically in his lap. They haven't spoken of the boat, or the kiss given and returned. Instead they'd kissed some more, in a variety of locations. The back of the cab ( much to the driver's chagrin that Klaus had silenced by casually tossing him a hundred dollar bill without so much as loosening his hold on her), against a streetlamp on Bourbon Street with her ankle wrapped around his leg, in line at the restaurant. It was a dance, a rhythm their bodies understood without question. There was a logic and an ease to it that demanded, and made it easy to, surrender._

 _The crawfish is messy, coating her hands and mouth in salty wetness. She keeps pausing to use napkins, her fingers slow, trying to work with finesse._

 _Klaus has no such compunctions. The shells yield to his fingers, his lips and teeth revelling in the prize. Tear, peel, suck, bite. He eats with gusto and practiced ease, unashamed of appetite. She can't look away._

" _Here," he sees her looking and takes the crawfish from her hand. "Hold it by the head and tail, then twist." It's a small, graceful violence. He peels away one or two rings of translucent shell, delicately, like threading a needle. She is pierced with an almost envious longing._

 _Without thinking, Bonnie uses her mouth to pluck the salty-sweet flesh from his hand; inexplicably, it tastes better this way. Her tongue drags along his finger until his eyes are dark as river stones._

 _She licks her lips. "One more?"_

* * *

Her phone pings with a notice from the airline. She drops her bagel.

 **Bonnie, your Upgrade to First Class is confirmed. Thank you for flying United Airlines.**

She calls the customer service number instantly.

"Hello? I'm calling about a change in my ticket-,"

"Ticket number and date of birth please."

She reads off the info from her phone.

There's an immediate, palpable change in the agent's voice. The perfunctory tone thickens with deference. "Hello Mrs Mikaelson. What can I do for you today?"

"Mrs-," she gapes, then recovers her words. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake, I didn't authorize any upgrade-,"

The agent giggles. "Oh I'm sorry, we thought he must have told you by now."

"Excuse me?"

"Your husband. Mr Mikaelson called this morning and arranged everything. An agent will meet you at the ticketing counter to process your check-in and escort you to our First Class lounge. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

She briefly considers explaining that she is not, in fact , Mrs Mikaelson before realizing how swiftly that could go left with airport security measures. "Thank you, no."

She's barely hung up the call when there's a knock on her door that leaves no doubt as to who her visitor might be. No one could make a knock sound so self aggrandizing.

Sure enough, she finds him standing almost politely at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back, looking freshly showered and far too innocuous in a white Henley and bomber jacket.

"You changed my ticket," she says by way of greeting.

He appears quaintly puzzled. "I'm sorry, were you actually excited to fly _coach_?"

She huffs. "That's not the point."

"Enlighten me then," Klaus replies, angling his head. "You professed a need to return home, I ensured your trip would be a comfortable one."

She opens and closes her mouth. She'd expected remonstrance, all night and morning she'd waited for some move on his part that would prevent her from leaving. An upgrade to first class had not even entered the realm of possibility in her mind.

"Is it so terrible for a man to indulge his wife?" he asks as a slow smile spreads across his face. He looks, in that moment, so boyish and gallant as to nearly disarm her. She spirals between the memory of him pinning her into the floor in that vacant shop, and crawfish and salt-sweet kisses.

"You're not just a man, and I'm not really your wife," she says, quietly, puncturing the illusion.

Klaus shrugs easily, "Semantics, love. If we are to resolve this issue, why not be amicable?"

"Now you want to be _amicable_? With me, the hellcat?" she raises an eyebrow.

He gives a throaty laugh. "Come now, we both know you relish your claws."

Bonnie shifts her weight, uncomfortable with his proximity.

"I realized you were right," he continues. "I am quite capable of finding the culprit on my own. My methods of hunting are tried and true."

"So...you're okay with me going back to Mystic Falls?"

"Perfectly. Your father is your main concern, as he should be. In fact, when our three months are up, I shall fly the witch responsible to Mystic Falls so you may have your mark removed in the comfort of your own home."

"Oh...," she blinks in surprise. She'd prepared to fight him, and now she doesn't feel prepared at all. She's going home, in first class no less. And she'll never have cause to return.

"You alright, love?"

"Yes...I mean- ," she shrugs a little ruefully, toeing the carpet. "- this just isn't how I pictured my trip to New Orleans. I mean, I got magically married but I didn't even try beignets. Who does that?"

Klaus pockets his hands. "You know, City Park is quite beautiful this time of day. I often sketch there in the mornings. And, their cafe serves beignets."

"Really?" she folds her arms, "I thought Cafe Du Monde was the best place to get beignets."

"Hogwash and tourist propaganda," he retorts, with a hint of outrage.

"I'll remember that for my next trip," she says dryly.

"Actually, I'm on my way to the park right now if... you would like to join me."

"My flight leaves in a few hours-"

He puts a hand on his chest, "I give you my word, I will deliver you to the airport with time to spare."

"...and the last time I went somewhere with you we got crazy magical tattoos."

And there's that smile again, easy and mischievous and a dimple in one cheek. "So the worst has already happened. You've married me, Bonnie. Why not let me show you a park, and buy you some beignets?"

Without the gravity of anger, her emotions scatter in reckless, wilful ways. Sophie's words flicker and die in her brain. _The tattoos heighten physical attraction...loosen inhibitions._

She should've stayed angry. Held onto it like a shield and an anchor. She should close this door, thank him for the ticket, and send him on his way.

"Okay...," she hears herself say. "Just for a little while."

* * *

He's not quite sure why he invited her to the park.

It was true, he came here often in the early mornings and evenings to catch the light (Marcel had declared the park a No Supernatural Activity zone - and edict he upheld as well - which meant the space remained an oasis of tranquility in the otherwise teeming city) but he never brought company. In fact, he treasured the hours he spent here and resented any intrusion. He'd tried to explain this to his siblings, once. Elijah had nodded sagely and remarked on nature's power to soothe vampiric tempers. Rebekah had waxed nostalgic, recalling the long walks they took together as children stealing away from a home that, in the end, was no home at all. But he gave up trying to make his meaning known to them, to explain that it was neither hope for salvation nor yearning for lost innocence that brought him here to the river and the ducks and the trees heavy with time and draped in spanish moss. That after spending centuries labelled an abomination, a thing that even vampires looked askance at and that both natural and supernatural forces had tried to extinguish, he had no desire now for reconciliation with or return to a world that had wished his death.

Instead, without any illusions about belonging to nature, he simply desired to be in it. Sit in the sunlight and the moonlight and casually catch the eyes of passing strangers, knowing that against all odds and gods, he'd arrogated to himself the mundane right of existence others took for granted each day. To sit on a bench with his pencil and sketch pad and delight in the monstrous irony of it all.

Perhaps, he thinks, watching Bonnie feed the swans - perhaps this explained his lifelong pull towards witches. There was something perversely satisfying about getting close enough to touch what nature considered one of her purest embodiments.

When Bonnie eventually resumes her seat next to him, reaching for her bag of beignets, he discreetly flips the page on his sketchbook and begins touching up an older drawing. They sit this way for a while in a strange, companionable silence, her presence like the scent of an orange being peeled in a crowded room, a bright, renewing awareness that enhances without disturbing.

Clearly those meddling ancestors knew what they were about when weaving this magic. For at that moment, despite his foreknowledge and plans, his frustration with himself and the witch, he is also curiously content to have her seated there, to sense her and smell her while his pencil moves across the page.

"Thank you, for the ticket," she says at length. "And for...understanding, about my dad."

Her expression is earnest, her eyes soft and sweet. Rebekah's plan is seemingly working, yet an uncomfortable warmth flares in his chest.

He clears his throat, deciding to satisfy his curiosity. "Is there truly no cure for his ailment? Not even with your considerable magical ability?"

She flinches a little and heaves a sigh, her face telling him all he needs to know.

"So...you've tried," he deduces. "And the Spirits denied you."

"How did you know?"

"Because I would do the same, in your place," he says evenly. "And because I'm well acquainted with the remonstrance of the Spirits."

She gives a wry grin, "They _were_ really eager to help me kill you."

He finds himself returning the smile. "I remember."

"It was Grams who brought the message," she says suddenly, chewing the inside of her cheek. "She showed up as I was casting and told me I already upset the balance once when I brought Jeremy back to life. If I did it again, the Spirits would cut me off. Even she wouldn't be able to help me then."

"Effective method of persuasion," he remarks with distaste. Of course they would punish her for the naivete of young love by preventing her from saving her father. It was just the sort of cruel and arbitrary stance they'd taken on his hybridity. "Surely you were furious?"

She shrugs. "I was...at first. I didn't listen, I tried spell after spell, spent whole weeks looking up Grimoires and scrolls. All that time I could have been spending with my father." There's a pause and she dusts some powdered sugar off her cardigan.

He waits for her to continue.

"Then one day I looked at the calendar and realized three whole months had passed since his diagnosis, and during that time I'd never sat with him after dinner, never watched an old movie together, never cooked his favorite dish. I was trying so hard to save him that I was losing him anyway." There's a bittersweet twist to her mouth. "So, I decided to take my grandmother's advice for once, and just enjoy what little time I have left with him."

He digests this in silence, reflecting on that other name for witches: _servants of nature_. It appeared the Spirits had finally succeeded in checking the ungovernable power of her determination to protect her loved ones from their fates. He experiences a combination of resentment and admiration. The former, because he did not believe in any higher authority placing checks and balances on power. And the latter...the latter because, even in her acquiescence, she manages a regality that's unwavering.

Perhaps, he merely envies her.

Klaus leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and watching the river. "And what of your anger?"

"Oh I'm still angry," she admits, with a self-deprecating laugh.

He smirks, recalling their altercation in that empty shop. "That's what I thought,"

"Okay, my turn to ask a question."

"Oh?" he sits back up, resting his arm along the back of the bench.

"It's only fair. Tit for tat, like they say," she points out, a hint of playfulness in her tone.

His eyes drop almost unconsciously to the smudge of powdered sugar between her breasts. "Indeed."

"Stop that."

He looks up from under his brows as if to say, again, _Make me._

"You're insufferable, you know that?" she says, crossing her arms. The gesture, unfortunately, does nothing to detract from her cleavage.

"You're hardly helping, love."

"Why were you at the wedding?" she asks, abruptly.

"I was invited."

She purses her lips. "You know what I mean. Why did you really come?"

"Because I knew I was not wanted there."

Bonnie lifts her eyebrows.

"If Caroline and Stefan had thanked me for my help and been on their way, they would've seen the last of me. It would've been an honest transaction, and I admire honesty," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "But I can't abide pity. And that is precisely what their little invitation was."

"So...you came exactly because you knew they didn't want you there?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I wanted to close the chapter on my own terms."

"By watching Caroline marry Stefan?"

"... _and_ Stefan marry Caroline."

He waits for the words to sink in.

"Oh...you and Stefan... _oh._ I knew it!"

"Did you now?"

She nods in triumph. "He acted so strange around you, and you seemed almost hurt that he didn't drop Elena the moment you showed up. Makes _total_ sense in retrospect."

He is only mildly offended at this assessment, being fascinated instead by the subtle play of expressions across her face.

"You couldn't have your ex boyfriend back, so you decided to pursue Caroline instead. Why?"

Klaus angles his head, a teasing lilt in his voice, "Don't you think it's a little late to inquire into my romantic past, love?"

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to be 'amicable', remember?" she points out, leaning her elbow next to his arm on the bench. "So, spill your deepest darkest secrets Klaus Mikaelson."

There's a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth like the barest flicker of a candle and he thinks, suddenly, that Rebekah's advice was misguided, this charade too slippery, the pull of the magic too strong. Because against all better judgement, he _wants_ to answer her questions. To cup his hands around that smile until it glows.

"My deepest darkest secrets? You would most certainly miss your flight," he says lightly.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, just the one then."

"Nothing so dark or mysterious about that, love," he replies. "I saw something in Caroline that Stefan also possessed, a core of darkness - or perhaps, determination. They tried to smother it, but in their secret moments, returned to that core over and over again." His finger brushes a loose curl of her hair, contemplatively. "I wanted them both to nourish that core, inhabit and embrace it. And, I suppose in their own way, they did. They just preferred to do so with each other."

Her eyes drift to the hand toying with her hair. He can sense another question behind her face, troubled thoughts of darkness and her own propensities. No doubt she imagines he saw the same core in her, the same piece of night hidden away.

* * *

 _His fingers grow addicted to the inside of her mouth, her secretive tongue, the blunt press of her teeth._

" _How are you so good at that?" she asks as he easily pries into another crawfish and tosses its shell aside._

 _He replies matter-of-factly, "Centuries of experience separating flesh from bone, love."_

 _"Oh my god," laughter bubbles out of her, "You're_ so _full of it, you know that?"_

 _Eyes dancing in mirth, she grabs his wrist and closes her mouth over the flesh in his hand._

* * *

He keeps his word, drives her to the airport in plenty of time. They're carried along in the same tranquil silence as before, but with a tinge of underlying tension he attributes to the tattoos. She puts up a rather amusing and flustered protest when he insists on hefting her luggage out of the trunk and onto a cart.

She mumbles a thank you and hurries to take the cart from him. They face each other briefly, surrounded by people embracing and kissing their goodbyes.

"I'll... see you around Klaus," she says, her stance growing awkward.

* * *

 _He's hard just watching his fingers disappear between her lips. Klaus uses those same fingers to capture her jaw, to kiss her with purpose and an almost casual savagery, greedy for the salt and sweet of her tongue, the appetite he'd fed and fed again._

 _She moans in ambrosiac delight, pulling on his collar when he breaks the kiss. He feels like he's plunging drunken into some bottomless deep. Her face is a cup of wine._

 _He pulls her closer._

 _"Marry me."_

* * *

"Travel safe, _wife_."

(She'd never asked him of course. Why he followed her onto the balcony that night. Whether he saw a secret heart of darkness in her too.)

"Please don't call me that," she protests with a gleam of warning in her eye. Nevertheless, she gives him a little wave before walking away. He finds his hands have bunched themselves inside his jacket, to keep from seizing her by the waist.

( _No_ , he would've answered her unasked question. There's nothing simple about light and dark, how they live inside people, how people live inside them both. And maybe he hadn't wanted to entice her so much as simply wanted her. Like his hybridity, his vengeance, his unchecked life. In defiance and desperation, without apology or regret. The only way he knew how to want.)

"Hey man, you got a light?"

The request comes from an older man wearing a linen shirt and hat leaning against a pillar on the sidewalk. Klaus hands him his lighter, watching Bonnie blend into a crowd of people inside the airport doors.

The man takes a long drag of a cigar. "Hard to see her go, huh? Don't blame you."

Cutting the stranger a cold glance in lieu of a gesture more expressive than he would like being caught on the many airport cameras, Klaus looks back to find the witch already gone, no doubt whisked away to the First Class lounge by an agent. He feels unreasonably irritated at losing sight of her.

"You should run after her, kiss her at the gate and shit. Like in those movies," the stranger suggests with a grin white as a knife. "She seems like she'd be into that-"

"Let's keep things civilized and cease discussing my wife, shall we?" Klaus replies coolly.

"Oh my _apologies_. Didn't know she was your wife," the man says with that sharp smile, tipping his hat as he goes. "Thanks for the light, man."

Alone on the curb, it dawns on Klaus how he must look, lingering exactly like a character in "those movies", searching for a glimpse of her. He stalks back to the car with an aimless frustration culling his chest, wishing he could grasp the knife himself, twist and wrench, do whatever is necessary to cut this - _cut her_ \- out from under his skin.

* * *

 **A/N** : _Yes, I know, I've fudged some necessary details about the realities of domestic air travel in the United States. Just go with it! Also, Klaus is right about City Park vs Cafe Du Monde. The former is a lovely and tranquil experience, the latter hellish._

 _Finally, I've been making some aesthetic edits for this fic, and thefudge made an AMAZING gifset based on Chapter 4. If you'd like to see them, they're on my Tumblr blog (irresistible-revolution dot tumblr dot com) under the hashtag #acaseofyou._

 _This story is very close to my heart, so do leave me some reviews because I love hearing your thoughts. And feel free to PM me here or on Tumblr anytime with fic related questions. Hope you enjoyed loves! xoxoxo_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:** Heads up, this chapter contains some **NSFW** bits. Also, while the kanimas are inspired by Teen Wolf I've given them my own spin/purpose. Finally, for those of you asked about/ are following  "some other way ( to tell you you're okay)" I'm sorry it's been a while since I updated, I've just been dealing with some stressful shit and haven't been able to access the necessary headspace to update since it's a very emotionally intimate story that takes a lot out of me. So, thank you for your patience and support! xoxoxo_

 _ **P.S:** Dovelina Sanchez: thank you so much for your enthusiastic reviews and I'm flattered you think I could write a good story for Aya/ Elijah from TO. Unfortunately I'm pretty caught up in Klonnie fics atm, but hopefully another writer will give Aya the story (or stories!) she undoubtedly deserves._

* * *

 _He's got one hand on the steering wheel and the other up her dress. It's tacky to make out in cars. Dangerous even. But somewhere between the boat and their tattoos and a bottle of moonshine she's lost her reservations the way you lose your hat in the sea._

 _His fingers travel innocently along her thigh, and there's a smile creeping out the corner of his mouth, like he's enjoying the tease. The demand in her undulating hips has seemingly no effect on him so she picks up his hand again and runs her tongue over the index finger. He inhales sharply, his smile slipping as she pushes his fingers past the lace of her underwear. For a moment he keeps his hand still, letting her rub against it. It isn't enough of course and he knows that. In eleven years of driving she's never not worn a seatbelt, but out on that highway she hitches up her dress and drapes a leg over Klaus' thigh. There's no gear shift between them, nothing to prevent her from half-climbing into his lap. The movement causes his hand to slide along her slick folds and he can't quite hide the low groan that escapes him. Bonnie puts her mouth to his ear and purrs a challenge, "I bet you can't fuck me and drive this car." His smile returning lazy and crooked makes her wet. Without warning, his touch becomes precise and purposeful, dancing along the lips of her sex until she's soaking his fingers in an entirely different way. She moans and opens her legs, arching her back and catching the wind in her hair -_

Bonnie starts awake, heart racing and damp-thighed, the sheets tangled around her knees. The tattoo on the back of her neck feels alive, burning. She groans when a quick glance at her phone reveals it's barely past 7 am.

A dull ache throbs between her legs. She can almost feel his fingers inside her.

It takes almost fifteen minutes under the cold spray of her shower for her body to recalibrate. For a month now this has been her morning routine. Wake up with the urge to reach down and replicate the movements of his hand ( knowing that as soon as she touches herself, the memories will flood back - his mouth, his touch, his voice roughening and breaking over her name ) and fight that urge with every ounce of willpower she can summon because she _won't_ get herself off thinking about Klaus. She refuses such a thing.

Which left her two months of this torture to look forward to.

Her first few nights back in Mystic Falls had passed uneventfully. Between spending time with Rudy and managing her duties with the Council, she'd begun nursing a tentative hope that her and Klaus' misbegotten adventure in New Orleans would fade into insignificance as an embarassing but quickly-rectified mistake.

That was before the dreams began, assailing her with increasingly vivid images of their "wedding night", over and over until she'd started to dread sleep itself. And to make it worse, the dreams were not fantasies or hypothetical scenarios but moments she and Klaus had actually shared: memories of touch and sensation drawn out in a nightly torture. Somehow, drunk and magic-high as they'd been with the forest floor and the backseat of a stolen car as their honeymoon suite, they'd had _good_ sex. Better than good, if she was being honest. The kind of sex that undoes you a little and puts you back together, leaving an impression that outstrips memory of physical pleasure with the knowledge that for those few hours you'd been someone else, someone you both feared and longed to be again.

Water bathing her bowed shoulders, Bonnie tries to remember herself, to hold close the familiarities of her life and who she is: daughter and friend and witch. Reliable, dutiful, moral Bonnie Bennett who'd never skip out on her best friend's wedding reception, never drive in a stolen car, never drunkenly marry a former enemy then let him drag her into the backseat of that car and-

Leaning her forehead on the shower wall, Bonnie breathes slowly, in and out through the nose, like she's in one of Caroline's yoga classes, and makes a mental list of her day. Cook breakfast, Skype call Alaric and the Council about one of their new initiatives, pick up Rudy's medication, meet Caroline for dinner.

 _You can do this, Bonnie,_ she repeats to herself until her skin cools and she begins to shiver. _Just one day at a time._

* * *

 _There's been a few memorable occasions when he's felt particular gratitude for his superhuman senses that had nothing to do with hunting or survival. The first time he smelled a lover's arousal before their clothes came off. The night he heard Beethoven's Fidelio at Theater an der Wien. Rain in the Kashmiri foothills. Each instance had pierced him with the sharp and startling knowledge - a knowledge grown surer as the centuries flew by, as he outlasted those who tried to destroy him - that in dying he had only become more deeply a part of the world. And the rush that gripped him now as he steers a stolen car with one hand and pleasures Bonnie Bennett with the other was no less euphoric, was just as atavistic. She's positively melting into his fingers, arching her back, modest bridesmaid dress askew, hair coming loose from its chignon and damp skin glowing. He drinks in the sight of her. "Eyes on the road, hybrid," she says, breathless while rocking into his hand. They'll need to pull over soon, somewhere quiet and private with no one to hear and see her but him. He floors the accelerator and catches a bead of sweat from her clavicle on his tongue. "My eyes, little witch, are exactly where they need to be."_

The first morning he awoke hard and sweat-slick from dreams of Bonnie Bennett, Klaus took the matter in hand and finished himself off. It was instinctual really and he repeated the action the next day, and the next, finding a certain piquancy at first in getting off to memories of the witch, his release made that much more satisfying by the thought of how outraged she'd be if she knew he was conjuring her precious image while he stroked himself.

But it wasn't long before this method lost something of its...verve. In fact, after a week or two the whole thing felt undignified in the extreme. He was Klaus Mikaelson for goodness sake, a bloody Original and a hybrid, not some hormonal adolescent boy with no recourse but his own hand. He'd be damned if he suffered under the blasted aftereffects of a tattoo for three months without seeking relief, especially when he lived in a city with so much relief to be had. So armed with this defiant frame of mind he set off for one of many watering holes on Bourbon Street, found a comely bachelorette, and took her to a motel with every intention of putting Bonnie Bennett out of his thoughts for at least a couple of hours. The girl was a pretty, dark-eyed thing with long legs and a butterfly tattoo on her hip, and he got her half naked face down on the bed before they both realized he was having difficulties of a _technical_ nature.

She gave him a look of impatience over her shoulder, "Can you hurry up? My friends are waiting for me."

Try as he might, burning as he was with pent up need, his body refused to co-operate. He tried a different bar, a different woman, a man with exquisite pianist hands, each with the same result.

Or lack thereof.

And still every morning found him soaking in dreams of her, his cock painfully hard, each of his senses sharpened to a knife's point and her name burning on his tongue. It was like being under a curse again, mad with desire for something elusive. It was as though Magic itself, that infuriating restorer of balance, had permitted him centuries of passion and music and rainfall only to now exact a cruel and punishing price. To almost make him wish he could trade it all, Beethoven and perfume and Kashmir too, for the backseat of a Monte Carlo and Bonnie Bennett pulling his hair while he bathed his face between her legs-

 _Two more months_ , he repeats into empty liquor glasses and blank canvases, stalking the city for any trace of the source of his affliction to, counting the days one by one like grains of sand.

* * *

" _Klaus, what the hell-,"_

 _It's not the abrupt pulling over on a gravel road that makes her gasp in outrage but the fact that he's removed his hand from between her legs. But her protest becomes a squeak when he drags her up and tosses her into the backseat. There's a glittering in his eyes like stars, molten yet sharp, a light that cuts-_

The dreams and their aftermath are bad enough, but it's the persistent feeling of his presence, like she could turn a corner and see him there with his grin and cut-glass eyes, that threatens to unhinge her sanity.

Bonnie struggles to nod along during her Skype call as Alaric outlines the Council's plan to maintain a registry that tracks supernaturals who purchase property in the city: one of their many attempts to bring vampires and werewolves legislatively to heel. Naturally, they propose that witches implement and oversee this process. She listens to their lofty ideas about using magic ( _her_ magic) to secure the town by way of built-in locator spells and magical tracking devices with an odd, pinched feeling behind her eyes.

"It won't work," she snaps. "Who's going to convince vampires and werewolves that have spent years hiding their identities to accept magical surveillance? Is there a coven of witches with free time on their hands sitting around Mystic Falls I don't know about?"

Four shocked faces gape at her from the screen.

 _Oh my god. Where did that even come from, oh my god_. Bonnie claps a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-," she rubs her forehead and tries to swallow the growl in her throat. "I've had a long week. Can we revisit this in a few days?"

She excuses herself from the rest of the meeting and brews some jasmine tea for her nerves.

 _A registry? How quaint._ She can hear his mocking laugh like he's in the room. The surge of anger subsides leaving a catharsis like the time she told the truth about hating champagne. Is this what it feels like being Klaus? This casual ability to refuse and defy?

Her phone buzzes with a message from Caroline about their lunch plans, and the restlessness returns in full force. She hasn't seen her friend since she got back from her honeymoon, and the thought of enduring her questions and searching looks makes her want to crawl under the covers, never to reemerge.

No, she isn't Klaus. Klaus wouldn't wrack himself with guilt for speaking his mind, nor think twice about keeping things private as he deemed necessary.

Not for the first time curiosity grips her about how he's dealing with all this. Is he dogged by her absent presence? Does he dream of her? Does he wake up wanting to-

She jumps at the kettle whistle, hurrying to pour herself a large cup and sorely tempted to spike it with bourbon.

She's sure Klaus would have no qualms about that either.

* * *

 _"Klaus- don't stop...please..."_

 _Her moans and soft, breathy cries are magic, like she's weaving a spell while he makes her come. Her salt-sweetness floods his tongue and throat and mouth, the wet rich scent of her sex makes him dizzy, each pass of his name between her lips pulls him deeper until all he can taste, all he can breathe is her. All he knows is her-_

It's Vincent who finds him nursing a third glass of bourbon at Gerard's.

"Rough day?" the warlock queries, ordering himself a whiskey sour.

Klaus glares by way of reply.

Vincent raises an eyebrow. "That bad huh?"

"Unless you've devised a way to slice this tattoo from my flesh I suggest maintaining your distance," he grouses, raising his hand for another refill. Vincent and Sophie had clearly neglected to mention the nastier affects of marriage tattoos, but he'd stab himself with white oak before detailing the nature of his symptoms to either of them.

Vincent chuckles and sips his drink, handing Camille a generous tip before turning back to Klaus, "So, you don't wanna know about the lead I might have on the folks who tattooed you?"

A galvanizing energy penetrates the haze of bourbon and frustration that's followed him around for weeks. "Where? When?" He climbs off his barstool and bears down on Vincent with feverish intensity.

"Easy," Vincent leans away from him. "I said it _might_ be a lead-,"

"I'm not in a mood for mincing words, Regent," he bites out, gripping the bar counter with nearly enough force to damage the wood.

"I can see that," Vincent eyes him with concern before speaking in a lowered tone, "Look, it may be nothing but...last night some kanimas broke into Lafayette, took off with some witch bones, left a mess behind."

 _Kanimas_. Klaus had encountered the creatures once or twice: reptilian shapeshifters whose venomous bite was fatal to humans and not without impact for wolves and vampires.

Vincent continues, "One of Jackson's people tracked them to the swamp, which is where Sophie and I are headed soon as I finish this drink. I thought we might be able to come to an agreement, get them to return the bones in exchange for something else but, turns out they're part of a smuggling ring. Which means-,"

"They are unlikely to yield their prize without a fight," Klaus finishes.

"Yup," Vincent mumbles, taking a swig. "Anyway, kanima venom is one ingredient in the ink for marriage tattoos. If these guys have been around the city lately - hell, they may have sold some to your culprit."

Klaus feels a smile stretch across his face. Before the night is over he might have some answers _and_ enjoy the reprieve of hunting, killing. Sinking his teeth into prey and feeding the restlessness festering inside him. He downs the rest of his drink and claps Vincent none too gently on the back. "Let's hop to it, mate," he urges cheerfully. "Those reptiles won't hunt themselves."

Vincent appraises him. "You sure you're up to this?"

He feels the wolf color his eyes as he leans forward, "I could furnish a reply here, or in the swamp with the creatures giving you trouble. Which would you prefer?"

* * *

"Bon, are you feeling okay?"

 _Just fucking peachy actually. I'm having erotic dreams about Klaus every night. I can't sleep. I think about having sex with him all the time. I can't sleep. I'm even starting to think_ _ **like him**_ _sometimes. All because of a magical tattoo I can't have removed for two more months because we consummated our fucking marriage like idiots. Did I mention I can't sleep? I feel like I'm losing my mind._

"Just tired," she replies with a thin smile, reaching for her drink. "So, how was Athens? Your Facebook pictures looked amazing."

Caroline's pursed lips indicate her refusal to be thrown off track. "How's your dad?"

 _How do you think?_

Bonnie stifles the snappy voice in her head with a sip of sangria. "He has good days and bad days. He still remembers basic stuff most of the time, he can dress and clean himself. Not exactly fun details," she finishes, bristling at the dawning pity on her friend's bright face.

"Oh...okay then," Caroline replies with a touch of pique.

"I'm sorry, I just haven't been getting much sleep lately," she mumbles, picking at her salad.

Bonnie wants to scream into the awkward silence that thickens the air. They should be having fun dammit. Caroline should be excitedly showing her a plethora of pictures and divulging too many details about her and Stefan's wedding night. She should be updating Caroline on the town gossip and complaining about the old farts on the Council. This lunch should be a reprieve from everything else, not an exercise in avoidance.

"So...," Caroline ventures, stabbing a strawberry with her fork, "are you divorced yet?"

"Nope," Bonnie replies evenly, "three month waiting period in Louisiana."

Caroline's brow furrows a little. "Can't Klaus just Compel a city official?"

"It's...not that simple."

"He goes down to the office, looks into someone's eye and tells them to sign your divorce papers. What's not simple?"

Bonnie feels her teeth grind. The irritation she swallows is coated painfully with guilt: she ran out on Caroline's wedding reception to get drunk and marry Klaus. No amount of diligent striving can erase _that_ blemish from her _Perfect Best Friend Track Record_. She almost wishes Elena were here. She might not have had any helpful advice, but she would understand in a way that Caroline didn't how sometimes you only need dip your toe for the current to sense your hunger and pull you swiftly beneath the waves.

But Elena was gone. She'd burned her bridges and never looked back. And as much as Bonnie marvels at the doppelganger's ability to follow her own happiness beyond any reasonable horizon, she also knows her own limits. She's not Elena, she's not Klaus. She can't set sail on an expedition of selfish desire without looking back. Without regret.

"It's not a big deal," she lies, smoothing her face into something like nonchalance. "It's a piece of paper, it doesn't affect our daily lives. Why go through any trouble for something that's gonna be over in two months? We both have other things to worry about." Bonnie smiles again, willing her friend's doubts and questions to disappear. "Now are you gonna tell me about Athens or am I gonna have to hack your phone again?"

The inquisitive gleam doesn't quite leave Caroline's eyes but she relents and fishes out her phone, plunging into details about the weather and the clothes and the food that Stefan kept making her try. Bonnie settles back into the shoes she'd flagrantly absconded the night she fled the reception, nodding and smiling, grateful to see her friend so happy. They don't fit like they used to, but there's a comfort in the familiar she's not yet ready to release.

* * *

"Got some of that tension out?" Sophie asks with a lifted eyebrow, watching him kick a severed, scaly limb into the lake. The kanimas had put up a delightfully fierce fight, but more importantly they'd divulged the names of three sellers who'd recently purchased venom from them.

"For now," Klaus replies, wiping his hands on one of the dead men's jackets. "I'm admittedly saving myself for the man or woman who inflicted me with this tattoo."

"Inflicted?" Sophie snorts.

"Cursed, afflicted, branded, I could go on," he counts off words as the three of them pick their way between the trees.

"You know what your problem is?" Sophie begins, earning a quiet groan from Vincent. "You don't want to accept that sometimes, there aren't any loopholes or easy answers. Sometimes, when you play with magic, you just have to ride out the consequences."

A muscle flares in his jaw as the rush of the kill fades into disquiet. The very idea of being subject to a greater power is an anathema to him, particularly when he considers that his partner in crime is most likely experiencing little to no difficulty in comparison. Unlike him and his sensual appetites, Saint Bennett is probably sailing through her days, the tattoo only a mild irritant easily overcome by the sheer force of virtuous pride. His hands flex in empty air. He almost wishes this magical affliction lasted longer so he could see her resilience give out, see her dislodged from her pedestal, make her feel even an inch of this shameful craving-

"That being said...," Sophie continues, getting the words out with some difficulty. "Thank you."

He cuts her a glance of mild surprise.

"We appreciate the help," she adds.

"I would've brought my umbrella if I foresaw this shower of gratitude," he replies without bothering to curb his sarcasm.

"Someone's touchy," Vincent laughs, shaking his head. "Sucks being away from the wife huh?"

He's about to remark on how easily he could murder them both and toss their bodies to the gators when he hears the ambush coming.

There's a split second before the kanimas strike that Klaus sees what could happen, sees himself dodge their claws and teeth that sink into Sophie instead, sees the light leave her eyes before she hits the ground. Sees Vincent hewn with grief. Himself echoing, _Ride out the consequences._

The gift of preternatural senses contains more than a deep awareness of the sensory world. You hear things on the wind, see what's coming before others do. In many ways, you get to choose your future, choose self-preservation every time.

Only this time, he pushes Sophie out of the way and takes the hit. It's a movement that lacks finesse or precision, marked instead with a reckless heroism both new and familiar-

 _Bonnie._

A venom-barbed kanima tail hits his chest, piercing the space between heart and shoulder, in the inky center of a month-old tattoo.

* * *

Bonnie sways against the kitchen sink, gripped by a cold fear that comes in waves. She can't move, can't shake the feeling that something's _wrong-_

Her tattoo is ice along the back of her neck.

 _Klaus..._

A dish slips between her soapy hands to shatter at her feet.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Don't hate me! LOL. Lemme know your thoughts!_


	8. Chapter 8

Rebekah's sipping blood from a crystal glass while flipping through the rustic weddings special edition of _Martha Stewart Weddings_ , waiting for the pink lacquer to finish drying on her toenails and thinking, with a warm flutter of anticipation, about many such evenings in her and Marcel's little country estate in Provence when it happens. The sound of a door followed by shuffling footsteps and a rather drunken ruckus punctures her rosy solitude.

She's about to plug in her headphones move on to Martha's instructions for simple but evocative wedding cakes when she hears her brother's voice rising hoarse and carefree into a song.

"My Bonnie lies over the oceannnn My Bonnie lies over the seaaaaaaaaa,"

 _What on earth-_

Flashing to the stairway, she's greeted by the site of Vincent and Sophie trying to wrangle her swooning brother, both looking a bit worse for the wear as Niklaus continues singing in abandon:

"Oh briiing back, briiiing back Oh bring back my Bonnie to me, to meeee...,"

Despite his tousled hair and clothes splattered with mud, Niklaus beams and sways dreamily like the hero of a Broadway musical.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with him?" Rebekah demands, descending the staircase.

"Kanima venom, a whole barb, straight to the heart," Vincent supplies, relinquishing his grip on Klaus who promptly falls to the ground, taking Sophie with him.

Rebekah watches in amazement as her brother flails on the carpet looking for all the world like a child making snow angels, singing his heart out.

"Oh briiing back, briiiing back Bring back my Bonnie to me, to meeeee-,"

Sophie stumbles to her feet and massages her temples.

"Kanima venom?" Rebekah frowns. "They use that in-,"

"Marriage tattoos." Vincent finishes.

" - Green Russians."

Sophie looks between them with a raised eyebrow. "The hell is a Green Russian?"

Rebekah shakes her head, Trust me, you don't want to know. How long is he going to be like this?" she gestures at her songbird brother.

"He took a pretty big hit, even for an OG," Sophie says, regarding Klaus with amusement. "But his blood will flush it out in a day or two -,"

" _A day or two_?" Rebekah gapes. "I have to listen to _this_ for two more days?"

"Oh he has other numbers in his repertoire," Vincent adds, groaning. "The car ride here was lit."

"I'm sure," she marvels as Klaus bursts into a second chorus of _My Bonnie_. "How'd he get jabbed by a kanima anyway?"

"He saved my life," Sophie says, shaking her head in disbelief. "Just jumped in and pushed me out of the way."

"Did he now?" Rebekah muses, sparing another glance at her brother who's busy counting the flowers on the rug while humming. She's familiar with Niklaus' determination when it came to defending himself and people he deemed worth defending, but risking his own well-being for someone else, jumping into the fray recklessly - those were traits she thought buried with their human lives.

"When the venom flushes out he's gonna crash, but don't worry," Vincent informs her. "Just let him sleep it off and he'll be fine."

"We took his phone and keys," Sophie says, handing Rebekah the objects for safe-keeping with a wry smile. "Don't let him do anything stupid...tempting as that might be."

* * *

" _The person you are trying to reach is unavailable, please leave a message after-"_

"Ugh!"

Bonnie clenches her eyes shut and tries not to throw her phone across the room.

She settles for flinging a sofa cushion instead.

She's been calling Klaus' phone every hour on the hour most of the night since nearly fainting in the kitchen but it's gone to voicemail each time. The rational part of her brain, the part that recalls her many antagonistic encounters with the hybrid from years past, is gently reminding her that he can't be killed or even effectively maimed. Unfortunately, the rest of her is seized by a mutinous host of feelings that refuse to let her rest, turning her skin hot and cold like a fever, shooting sparks of alarm up and down her spine. She's tried taking a hot bath, doing yoga stretches, even dousing her tea with melatonin in the hopes of falling asleep. Instead, 5:00 am finds her sprawled on her couch, flipping through TV channels and trying to get Klaus Mikaelson on the phone to make sure he's unharmed.

She tries his number again. "Dammit Klaus," she growls after the beep, "pick up your goddamn phone!"

Unfortunately, her outburst changes nothing, so Bonnie hunkers down in her blanket and turns on _Antique Road Show._

She tries sitting up, leaning back, propping her feet up on some pillows. The couch she usually loves lounging in now feels like a torture device until finally she throws off the blanket in a fit of impotent rage and lies down on the floor. Being flat on the ground has an oddly calming effect as she stares up at the ceiling with the TV droning in the background.

If she focuses on these simple, muted things perhaps she could ignore the pulsing urgency under her skin-

-the phone rings and she nearly stumbles in her rush to grab it.

"Hello?... Hello?"

* * *

"Bekahhhhh...,"

"No."

"Aww, don't be a stiff."

"I'm not lying down on the floor, Nik."

"But the floor is so lovely-,"

"It's the floor."

"There's _flowers_ on this rug, did you know that?"

She lowers her magazine in exasperation, looking down from her position on the settee. "Yes, Nik, there's flowers on the rug. You bought this rug, remember?"

"Did I? How clever of me." He prods the carpet fibers with his finger, eyes aglow as he starts counting the petals. "She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not...,"

Rebekah pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't deserve this."

"...she loves me, she loves me not...There's so many petals!" Niklaus exclaims, scooting along the rug. He's kicked off his shoes and jacket, and splatters of mud and blood decorate his shirt and jeans.

"You look like a ragamuffin," she deadpans, hoping for a reaction.

"It's how I feel on the _inside_ that counts, Bekah. And I feel-,"

"Don't say it-,"

"Wonderful," he sighs, falling happily on his back like some frolicking meadow-dwelling girl. "Do you feel wonderful?"

"...no."

He rolls onto his side, his face a picture of such perfect concern that Rebekah almost laughs. "You should come lay on the flowers. You'll feel wonderful then."

"I highly doubt it."

"Please?" he pouts, "Just try it."

Rebekah closes her eyes and mentally counts to ten, hoping that she'll open them to find this has all been a bizarre dream. No such luck. Niklaus is still reclining on the carpet, beaming and earnest and eyes full of entreaty.

"If I lie down on the floor for f _ive minutes_ , will you promise to stop bothering me and go to sleep?"

He sprawls on his back again, hands clapping in victory. "Yessssss!"

"Five minutes, Nik," she reminds him, lowering herself gingerly onto the carpet and grateful she's wearing her old silk pajamas instead of the new Valentino ones Marcel had splurged on. "And make some room, will you? You're hogging the rug."

* * *

"Bonnie? Bonnie I'm- I'm so glad you picked up," the soft, familiar voice sobs on the other line, "I didn't know who else to call and I know I haven't- haven't called or texted in a while-,"

"Elena?" Bonnie sits on the floor next to her couch, wiping bleary eyes as her shoulders stiffen with concern, "Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm okay. I'm still in Paris," Elena sniffs, "It's Damon...he's gone."

"Gone?" she runs through a list of possibilities in her mind, each one more dire than the last. Elena's a vampire, so it couldn't be someone after doppelganger blood. Maybe someone with a grudge against Damon? He had plenty of those. "Did someone attack you guys?"

"What? No, no we just -," Elena sighs, her voice starting to waver again, "We had this huge fight. We were screaming at each other and then he - he was just gone."

Bonnie sags a little with relief, "That's all?"

"It's been two days, Bon," Elena's tone softens with despair again, "I've been calling him for hours and he isn't picking up."

" _Why_ can't people just pick up their phones," she mutters.

"What?"

"I said, can't you sense where he is and if he's okay? Doesn't the...umm sire bond let you do that?" Bonnie asks delicately, knowing the subject is a sensitive one.

"No, it doesn't work like that," Elena says, sounding forlorn. "...I wish it did."

"I'm sorry 'Lena. I wish there was something we could do," Bonnie adds, though her words feel more habitual than sincere. She's so exhausted and wound up she can barely lift a finger much less wrap her mind around helping Elena track Damon down on a whole separate continent.

"I guess you can't do locator spells over the phone huh?" Elena asks with a little laugh.

"No, it doesn't work like that," Bonnie says, running a hand over her sleep-deprived face. "I'm sorry," she adds.

"He'll come back right? He won't stay gone for long...," Elena says, almost to herself.

"He's never stayed away from you for long," Bonnie can't help add with a touch of wryness. The summer before she and Damon left Mystic Falls, Damon had disappeared for over two weeks, Elena's only contact with him being relegated to late night phone-calls made from payphones she had no way of calling back. Caroline had labelled it a dick move and flatly advised Elena to dump him. Bonnie had been more diplomatic, suggesting that maybe Damon wasn't ready for the kind of relationship Elena desired. In the end, Elena had followed her own counsel.

Elena sighs again, "How- how are things with you?"

Bonnie opens and closes her mouth. How would she explain...anything? Her mind strains and threatens to crack with the effort and she takes a shaky breath. "I don't even know-,"

"Oh...Bonnie, he's calling. Damon's calling! I-,"

Bonnie feels her shoulders slump with an all-too-familiar resignation. "I'll talk to you later, 'Lena," she says, swallowing a thick wave of disappointment and hanging up the phone before her friend does. Damon is no doubt rushing back to reassure Elena with his presence, if nothing else. They'd spend days together in bed before blazing their way through whatever city next caught their fancy, drinking and glutting themselves on blood and on each other until the appetite grew weary again, for a time.

Curling up on the floor, Bonnie pulls a blanket over her legs before dejectedly dialing Klaus.

" _The person you are trying to reach is unavail-,"_

 _Dammit._

After years of watching her friends romancing vampires and werewolves, she's still at a loss, still without recourse. Caroline is happily at home with Stefan, and Elena would no doubt be in Damon's arms soon enough. Meanwhile, she's lying on the floor like a heartsick schoolgirl worried about Klaus, of all people. Not a lover or sire, but someone who according to a couple of magical tattoos and the state of Louisiana, is her _husband_.

Bonnie's chest rattles with hollow laughter, like a windowpane flapping in the wind.

Her husband who won't pick up his goddamn phone-

Suddenly, she's on her feet and bolting upstairs to rifle through her closet, tossing shoes and scarves out her way madly until she finds the small grey silk clutch she'd carried in New Orleans, giving a cry of triumph when her fingers seize on the piece of napkin Vincent Griffith had written his number on.

Her excitement fades however when she looks at the clock. She'd have to wait at least four more hours before it's a respectable time to call someone.

In her manic frustration she almost doesn't see the pair of silver cufflinks tucked carefully in the inner pocket, polished and engraved with the _M_ for Mikaelson.

* * *

"Bekah?"

"Hmm?"

"May I have my phone please?"

She turns her head to meet Niklaus' look of wide-eyed entreaty and suppresses a smile. His venom-high has settled from bouncy-and-singing to mellow and disturbingly sentimental. "Not yet, monkey. Not until you're all better."

An slight frown mars his forehead, "I feel wonderful, I already told you."

"When you're feeling more like yourself then," she says, patting his arm before returning her gaze to the ceiling. "Who would you phone anyway?"

"The witch. My witch. The one who nearly succeeded in killing me. The one I'm married to," he finishes with an idyllic sigh.

Rebekah snorts, "Really? And what do you plan to tell her?"

"Firstly, that I'm alright. I wouldn't want her to worry. I want to hear her smile when she picks up the phone. She doesn't smile as much as she should, and she has the loveliest smile-"

Rebekah arches an eyebrow. "Does she? The same witch you once called a hellion and an upstart?"

"- and the most _exquisite_ breasts -,"

"Okay, I've heard enough," Rebekah groans.

"I can't decide whether to bite them or fall asleep between them...Probably a combination of both," he finishes with another sigh.

"You want to phone her to talk about her breasts?" she asks, rolling her eyes.

His eyes drift shut with a contented little smile, "Among other things."

"Annd I'm off to bed," Rebekah declares, getting to her feet. "Enjoy the rug, make sure it's cleaned up when you're finished. Actually, just throw it out."

"Bekah-"

"You can't have your phone back."

As much as she'd love to give him phone _and_ keys and let him traipse his way down the Quarter, setting an unvarnished Niklaus loose on the city would create more trouble than it's worth. And marriage tattoo or no he'd probably send poor Bonnie running for the hills if he rang her talking about using her breasts as a chewy pillow.

"Bekah-,"

"I said no, monkey."

He sits up on his elbows, "My keys then?"

She gives him a stern look. "What do you think?"

"What about _your_ keys?"

"What about them?"

Both their gazes swivel to the dinner table where Rebekah had left her purse that afternoon, then back to each other. They leap into action at the same time, flashing to the dining room in a rush of speed that sends couch cushions and table mats flying.

* * *

"Vincent? Hi, it's Bonnie...Bonnie Bennett. We met about a month ago." Keeping an eye on the stove where a pot of oatmeal simmers for Rudy's breakfast, Bonnie pinches and pulls the skin at her elbow, desperately trying to suppress the nervous energy bubbling after two cups of coffee.

"Oh, hey Bonnie," Vincent says, his voice a touch raspy with sleep. "Sorry, we had a crazy night. Is everything alright?"

"Have you...seen or heard from Klaus lately?" she tries and fails to keep her tone light.

Vincent gives a wry chuckle, "Oh I heard him. After he got dosed full of kanima venom it was eighties night in my car."

"Kanima venom...," her sleep-deprived brain supplies some vague reference about its narcotic properties from a Grimoire read ages ago. "What happened?"

"We tracked some grave robbers to the bayou, thought they might have some clues about who did y'alls tattoos. Anyway, some kanimas jumped us and Klaus pushed Sophie out the way and took the hit."

"What?" she gasps, her hand coming up to cover her tattoo where it burned.

"I almost didn't believe my eyes," Vincent says with another short laugh. "Anyway he's fine, just high on the venom for a day or two."

"Oh - ,"

"Those tattoos are something huh?" Vincent remarks after a beat, gracefully sparing her from having to explain why she's calling someone at 8:00 am on a Saturday to inquire about Klaus Mikaelson's wellbeing.

"You don't know the half of it," she sighs, willing her heart to stop racing. "Thanks again, Vincent."

The sting in her tattoo abates so suddenly that she's weak with relief as she hangs up the call and starts putting the oatmeal into bowls and setting out Rudy's medication. She feels light on her feet. Her hands and eyes move instinctively, heart chirping like a bird, _He's okay, nothing to worry about, he's okay._

* * *

 _Humid night air beads her thighs as she runs laughing, deeper into the grove of oak trees. Klaus isn't at her heels yet, he's given her a head start. They both know she's running from the inevitable but he's granted her this small reprieve, this liminal indulgence. When his arms seize her, pulling her back flush against his chest, she closes her eyes to breathe in as much of the moment as possible. Moments like this are always belying their promise, always over too soon. Pushing her hair to the side, he blows cool air on her tattooed skin. She shivers when his hands descend on the pearl buttons of her dress with vicious grace and a quiet sigh escapes her._

" _What's the matter?" he breathes soft between her shoulder blades, kissing each pearl of her spine while her bodice hangs in tatters at her waist._

" _You want me," she says, eyes still closed._

 _There's a low, warm laugh as he presses her more firmly against him. "Stating the obvious, love."_

" _I want you too," she says and feels him grow still, his mouth hovering below her left shoulder as he waits for her to continue. "This is the best part isn't it, wanting, waiting? It's never as good in the aftermath, at least in my experience."_

 _He turns her in his arms, a callused hand stroking her cheek and coaxing her eyes to open._

" _Well," he muses, leaning into the tree behind him and gathering her to his chest, "having heard your concerns I can offer you two options."_

 _She raises an eyebrow, playing with the buttons on his shirt._

" _Option one, I divest you of the remainder of that dress and make you come at least three more times before sunup."_

 _She tries to laugh but it sounds more like a little gasp. "What's option two?"_

 _His hand grasps the nape of her neck and draws her mouth near his own. Klaus ghosts a kiss over her lips. "There is no option two."_

It's after 4: 00 am when the dream slips from her mind like a caress, nudging her gently awake to the sound of her ringtone, her body registering a few hours of surprisingly restful sleep as she reaches for her phone and murmurs a "hello".

"Hello, love."

"Klaus," she says more breathily than she intended. "I tried calling you yesterday-,"

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I mean yes, but -," she clears her throat, "it's not like I'm getting much sleep these days anyway."

"Neither am I." His voice is warm and husky and makes her toes curl a little.

She turns on her side, the phone pressed into the pillow. "Somehow I'm guessing our mutual insomnia isn't why you called."

"No," he admits softly. "I wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh...," is all she can manage as her stomach flutters uncontrollably. _It's just the kanima venom talking, Bonnie._

"Well...here's me, having a voice. I'll be here all week," she jokes.

Klaus gives a low chuckle.

"I found your cufflinks by the way. They were in my purse."

"Elijah will be very grateful," he replies. "And I owe you a favor in return."

"How about you don't get stabbed by anymore kanimas?" she mumbles, throwing a leg over a second pillow and bringing it to her chest.

"I'll try my best, love."

A silence floats between them and Bonnie feels her body relaxing as her eyes drift close.

"Klaus?"

"Bonnie," he says her name with a smile.

"I'm sleepy."

His laughter travels through her, settling over her skin like a blanket. "Go back to sleep, love."

"Okay," she sighs, burrowing into the covers with almost feline contentment, her phone cradled loosely in her hand so she hears him hang up.

* * *

This might be his favorite time of day, the second twilight, the balmy silk of night tinged with restlessness for the approaching dawn, like firewood before the first spark.

Klaus slips the burner phone back in his pocket and removes the gas nozzle from Rebekah's car.

He drives the rest of the way with the windows down, chasing the sun, catching the first threads of gold in the sky as the highway splits off under a sign that reads _Next Exit, Mystic Falls_.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Klaus is always so Tormented TM in canon that I just love writing him into these silly and humbling scenarios; that being said I hope I didn't overplay my hand. The next chapter - aside from having plenty of Klonnie - is one I've been waiting to write since the beginning of this fic so I'm pretty excited. Thank you for all your reviews and faves and follows, your love for this story brings me unending joy. Drop me a line and lemme know your thoughts! xoxox_


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N:** This chapter has some NSFW parts, fyi!_

* * *

 _He makes good on option number one._

 _Hands braced on his chest, Bonnie leans into the waves of a third orgasm that break over her, the rush of which lifts and shakes her until she slumps, trembling and sweat-soaked, on top of him. "Fuck...," he breathes into the curve of her neck, before his fangs break the tender skin anew and steal another sip of her. He holds her hips in place a few moments longer, his own release following swiftly. Afterwards, he kisses her mouth, tongue caressing hers with a bit of his own blood, soothing as a balm, until her shivers subside. She hums a little when his hand massages the nape of her neck where her tattoo glows blissfully. There's a languor in their kissing that seeps into her bones, makes her head roll on his shoulder while his mouth continues to brush against her damp forehead and the curve of her cheek. Bonnie strokes the mark of his own tattoo and nuzzles his face, enjoying the roughness of stubble along his jaw. They are both too limp from satiation to question the swell of tenderness._

* * *

When Bonnie finds Klaus standing on her threshold with two bags of groceries and a mile-wide smile she's so startled she yelps and slams the door in his face.

 _This can't be happening. This can't be happening!_

She closes her eyes and waits to see if her hallucination - surely she's hallucinating - will vanish. The morning had started out with such promise too. She'd woken up feeling rested, the tight knot of worry and anxiety she'd harbored for almost two days having melted like butter on a hot pan, leaving a quiet bubbling contentment she couldn't explain but embraced gratefully. Following a brisk shower she'd set Rudy up in his favorite chair with his newspaper and ambled to the kitchen to make breakfast when the doorbell rang.

She can see the top of a blond head bobbing at the glass panel.

"Bonnie? May I come in now?"

 _Fuck. Shit. Fuck._

Taking a deep breath and summoning a vestige of calm, she eases open the door with a tight smile. "Klaus," she bites out, "what the hell are you doing here?"

His face assumes an innocent confusion as he gestures at the bags of food in his arms, "I've come to see you of course. And make you breakfast."

Bonnie takes a closer look at the hybrid, the traces of mud on his clothes, the lopsided grin plastered across his face, the dilated pupils, and realizes he's still in the grip of the kanima venom. "Klaus, listen to me," she says in a quiet, calm tone, "you're under the influence of a supernatural venom. You need to drive back to New Orleans and take a long nap-,"

"Can't I make you breakfast first?" he asks with a furrowed brow.

"Bonnie...who is that?" Rudy inquires, having shuffled into the living room. He squints at Klaus with a faint smile, "...do I know you?"

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. _This really can't be happening._

"Niklaus Mikaelson," the hybrid informs him with a cheery nod, still lingering on the threshold. "I'm-,"

"A friend!" Bonnie hastens to add. "He was just dropping off some groceries I asked him to pick up, right Klaus?"

"Well I had hoped to-,"

Rudy waves his hand, "Come on in, son. Bonnie and I were just about to make breakfast. I'm sure you two would like to catch up."

And just like that, at her father's words, the invisible barrier between Klaus and the door, her last bastion of defense, vanishes swift as an eyeblink.

* * *

"These are for you."

She'd ushered him into the kitchen and set about making some coffee when he produced the bouquet of pink roses from behind his back.

"I - Klaus-,"

"Do you not like them? I'm afraid my options were rather limited. It was these or a bunch of daisies that had clearly seen better days," he says with a frown, glancing anxiously at her face.

He looks so hapless and disarming standing there holding a bunch of flowers that Bonnie has to catch herself with a stern reminder about their situation.

"They're nice" she says with a polite smile, "thank you."

As soon as she reaches for them, his other hand takes hold of her waist and draws her to his chest. "I missed you," he murmurs, gently resting his forehead on hers. His curls tickle her skin and his mouth lingers mere inches from hers. A rush of feelings and desires she's kept tucked away swarm her all at once and she struggles to remember why this is a terrible idea, that he is Klaus Mikaelson and she Bonnie Bennett, that these tattoos are adling her brain, that all of this is puppeteered by a dose of magic on the heels of a bad decision. His presence, these feelings, the two of them together in a sunlit kitchen and the smell of pink roses and his hand warm against the small of her back. It's a lie. All of it.

"I'm going to go put these in some water," she says quietly, pushing away from him and hurrying out to the living room.

She's a flurry of nervous energy that won't subside. If anyone found out Klaus was in Mystic Falls - in her house, her kitchen, making her breakfast -

Bonnie shakes her head to clear it, returning to her mantra. _One thing at a time._ Put the flowers away. Give Rudy his medicine. Eat whatever breakfast Klaus is cooking. _Oh god_. A glance over her shoulder shows Klaus busying himself with eggs and flour. He looks up, rolling his sleeves, and a boyish, dimpled smile spreads across his face.

She wants to bang her head against a wall.

* * *

She senses Rudy watching her clip the stems before placing the roses in a vase.

"How do you two know each other?" he asks after a beat.

"We umm...we met in college and stayed in touch," she lies breezily.

He chuckles a little from his chair, picking up his newspaper.

"What?" she asks, a smile forming on her face, surprised by his mirth. This is the most mentally present her father's been in weeks.

She slides the last rose into place and surveys her handiwork, seeing for the first time their pink and delicate freshness. Their bright calm. Their shy, untainted happiness.

Rudy returns her smile. "Those flowers are real pretty."

* * *

Klaus has somehow managed to produce lemon crepes dusted with powdered sugar. The three of them sit around the kitchen table and Bonnie fights to keep a neutral face as dainty, flavorful bites melt on her tongue. She's never been particularly adept at fancy meals, and she's certainly never concocted anything like this. The breakfasts she usually cooked for herself and Rudy - oatmeal, wheat toast, scrambled eggs - were hearty but simple. These crepes on the other hand are both elegant and delicious. Light, yet richly satisfying like something Marie Antoinette might have eaten off a porcelain plate. Little mouthfuls of sunshine.

Rudy compliments Klaus on the meal, prompting the latter to launch into a tale about his early years in New Orleans and the Creole communities that had shared shelter and family recipes with him. Her father listens with rapt attention and even offers a few anecdotes about his own travels. Some of the details get muddled, and he repeats himself a few times, but Klaus remains unperturbed, cheerily digging into his crepes while Rudy loses and rediscovers the threads of his own story.

The kitchen smells of lemon and sugar.

Bonnie swallows something sweet, yet sharp, lodged in her throat. Something that needles through the domestic idyll surrounding her with yet another reminder that everything is illusory. Everything would vanish. In a few hours when Klaus came down from his venom high. In two months when their tattoos had exhausted their power. Eventually, when his disease severed the last threads of recognition between herself and her father.

To promise and snatch away. To control and cut loose. To grant you things you were afraid to want, then lay you bare. Make you crawl. There's a cruelty to magic she can't reason or reckon with. That she cuts herself on repeatedly. Wishing for more time than she has with her father, for these tattoos to disappear and take their errant, golden feelings with them- if she isn't careful, she'll be sliced open, bleeding regret and desire until there's nothing left.

Murmuring an excuse she slips upstairs before Klaus or Rudy can notice the sudden water in her eyes.

* * *

He follows her, naturally. She hears his footfall on the stairs and then he's standing in her bedroom, filling up the doorway.

"Have I upset you?" he asks, peering into her face with such sincere concern she almost laughs.

"Actually, you haven't. For once," she adds, with a dry snort. "And I'm fine, it's just ...been a long few weeks. Things will get easier once our three months are up." She exhales, catching her lower lip between her teeth as the stress and worry of the past month wash over her again. She feels brittle enough to shatter with a single, small push.

Klaus closes the distance between them and cups her cheek in his hand, catching the tear that's lingered there. "Since you left New Orleans, every day has felt like an eternity," he declares in a quiet voice. "I can't sleep for thinking of you." He walks her slowly backwards until she's pressed against her desk. "Let me take your mind off everything, for a little while, for as long as you need," he says softly. "Let me take care of you, Bonnie."

Her throat is dry, a riot of butterflies in her stomach rendering her unable to form words. It's not fair. All she wants is to lean in, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him like she's a high school girl that's snuck a boy into her room. She's so tired of fighting. His hand caressing the small of her back almost makes her dizzy.

"Klaus, you're high as a kite right now...," she manages at last, putting a gentle hand on his chest. Her breath hitches when he bends to kiss her fingertips and she loses her train of thought once more.

She jumps a little when the doorbell rings downstairs, stumbling through the haze of weakness that grips her and extricating herself from his grasp. At the window, she sees Alaric's car parked on the sidewalk.

 _Shit._

"Is that who I think it is?" Klaus murmurs, moving to stand behind her and take light hold of her hips. His head leans drowsily on her shoulder. "Send him away," he mumbles.

Bonnie yanks down the blinds and pushes him away from the window. "Klaus, listen to me- Hey, eyes up here," she admonishes when his gaze strays lazily down her body. "You need to stay here and _stay quiet_ until I see what Alaric wants ok?"

The hybrid grumbles an almost comical protest and moves to take her in his arms again.

Bonnie places both hands flat on his chest and summons the sternest voice she can, "I don't want to zap you when you're being nice. It's no fun that way."

He sits down on the edge of her bed and clasps her hand over his heart. The dull steady thud of which travels up her arm, warming her head to toe like whiskey.

"You can zap me," he says, simply, "whenever, however you like."

His face gazes at her open and earnest and willing, sunlight caught between long lashes, bathed in a bewitching innocence. She could drown in the soft blackness of his pupils, in the way he looks like he would do anything, anything she asked of him.

There's a fluttering deep in her belly that makes her legs go weak. At that empty shop, fighting, cursing each other, he'd crawled towards her hungry as a beast and kissed the magic off her lips. She'd been heated and furious and longing to claw him like the hellcat he later accused her of being. Had Vincent not interrupted they might have fucked on that wooden floor, their cries of agony and ecstasy echoing down the hallways while she cursed him and herself, and afterwards the sin would have scrubbed out of her skin. But this - the soft and languid hunger in his eyes, the answering thrum in the pit of her stomach - this would invade her flesh like a fever. Trickle down her throat like syrup.

Bonnie jerks her hand away, mastering the tremor in her voice to mumble,"Stay here."

The tattoo on her neck stings in mockery.

* * *

"Hey," she says with as casual a smile as she can muster plastered across her face. "Sorry for the wait, I was upstairs and Dad - yup, fell asleep in his chair again," she confirms, craning her neck to see in the living room.

Her former history teacher and current boss via his position on the Council returns her smile, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. "Mind if I come in for a bit?"

"Ummm, now's actually kind of a bad time, Ric" she says, leaning against the door and casually blocking his entrance. "I'm in the middle of some...chores. The house is a mess."

Alaric raises an eyebrow.

"I'll see you at the meeting next week?" she adds, moving to close the door when he stops it with his hand.

He peers with some concern down into her face. "Bonnie...I don't mean to pry, but are you doing okay?"

She feels her shoulders tense as the familiar, paternal concern covers his face. Alaric had adopted his fatherly approach ever since she started working with the Council, an approach that intensified once Rudy was diagnosed. But while she appreciated the sentiment, the whole thing made her feel singled out for her lot in life among her small group of friends. And what's more, it reeked of pity.

"It's just that...," he continues, studying her face. "You seemed a little distracted at our last meeting. If you need to take a break, or if you need some help, I'm always around."

A faint thud emanates from upstairs, making Bonnie tighten her fingers on the doorframe. _Dammit Klaus._

"Thanks Ric, I really appreciate it. I'll see you next week," she ends firmly.

"Well, if you need anything-,"

"Yup, yup. Thanks again!"

She closes the door and bolts upstairs. At this rate she'll have thighs of steel by the time Klaus finally went on his way.

"Klaus, what the hell! I told you to-,"

But her reprimand is wasted on the air. Sprawled across her bed like a fallen tree, Klaus Mikaelson is sleeping like the dead, naked as the day he was born.

* * *

 _The last time Bonnie Bennett had him flat on his back on a forest floor, she was trying to kill him. She'd descended on him like an avenging angel, fire in her eyes and death on her lips, ready to wipe him from existence. Her magic had scoured his body from the inside out, pain laying waste to his senses until he couldn't feel the boundaries of his own being, until there was no discerning where his skin ended and the scorching sky began. Until his very bones rattled for her. And while she's not hurling magic at him now, she still glows with a kind of power that renders him quite speechless. Quite unable to do anything but run hungry hands over her waist and hips, the enticing fullness of her breasts, the maddening curve of her lower back. Eyes rolling shut he surrenders to the undertow when suddenly her palms slam against his chest, nails scraping as her body pitches like a boat in a storm. "Klaus -," she pants, slowing the delicious motion of her hips, "-I can't..," She's shuddering from an effort that leaves him confused and growling until he feels her magic pouring out of her skin, crackling in the air in small, sharp filaments while she fights to restrain it. Little sparks brush his body, pinpricks of memory that make his spine arch up, up into her. "Don't -," he growls, fingers tangling in her damp hair and pulling her face down to his for a savage, desperate kiss. "Don't hold back. Not with me."_

Her scent is everywhere. Warm and musky, mouthwatering like peaches. A groan of pure frustration rumbles in his throat, dispersing the last remnants of sleep as his hands grope a sea of softness in search of her body and find nothing. He's so hard for her it's like a dull, feverish ache has settled in his bones. It's almost enough to alleviate the distinct throb of a hangover at his temples.

Only, he can't remember the last time he'd drunk enough to-

Memory registers with a small twinge on the left side of his chest. The swamp, the kanimas, that flash of reckless heroism he'd been unable to resist. Floating on a tide of elation for nearly two days. The drive to Mystic Falls.

Klaus raises himself up on his elbows and his surroundings come into view. Worn but clean carpets. Books and magazines spilling over a small desk in the corner, a half-folded pile of laundry on the office chair beside it. His eyes wander the faded walls, noting the one corner painted blue and the small pile of painting supplies on the floor evincing an in-progress redecorating project. Empty tea cups, some with the tea bags still inside, decorate the top of a plain wooden dresser. Far from the pristine and fastidious space he might have envisioned, Bonnie Bennett's bedroom is a snug, untidy enclave full of the evidence of a haphazard daily routine. The thought creates a warm feeling of amusement in his chest.

A quick glance at the floor shows no sign of his clothes, although he distinctly recalls peeling them off when seized by that infernal sleepiness. As a rule he didn't wear clothes to bed, finding such modern sensibilities an exercise in futility.

The pale green covers on Bonnie's bed are tangled around his waist and legs, as though he'd rolled in them while asleep. He's wondering where the bloody hell he put that burner phone when he hears footsteps - her footsteps - coming up the stairs.

* * *

"Hello wife," he drawls, as casual as though he's not lounging stark naked on her bed.

She immediately looks at the ceiling, her face burning.

"You're up," she says.

"In more ways than one, it would seem," he returns, a sensual mirth in his voice. "Is depriving me of my clothes really necessary, love? If you fancy a shag you need only ask."

"I 'fancy' setting you on fire, but then I wouldn't have a bed," she retorts, tossing his clothes at him. She'd decided to wash the muddy garments while he slept. If his ridiculously ostentatious bathroom was anything to go by Klaus is prickly about personal hygiene; she'd reasoned a set of clean clothes would render him more amenable to making a smooth exit from Mystic Falls. He ignores the clothes however in favor of leaning against her headboard and letting his eyes roam her body in a shameless kind of way that makes her want to slap him. Except it's not the only wanting that travels up her spine like dancing fingers at the sight of him. Sheets barely covering his lower half, hair tousled from sleep, the muscles of his chest and shoulders indolent in the dusky sunlight: he looks good in her bed.

And the room is hot. Uncomfortably so. She has half a mind to throw a window open. Maybe defenestrate herself and run briskly down the street. Anything to escape the heat thickening the air between them that makes her light headed, makes her thighs press together.

"Come here," he says huskily.

"My father's downstairs," she blurts, quite certain her legs have turned liquid.

His eyes gleam at her. "Then we'll have to be quick, won't we?" He angles his head, gesturing down at his lap. "Have a seat. You can leave that skirt on, if you'd like."

Like a slowly-weaving spell, his voice steals into her mind and she sees herself walk to the bed and climb astride, lifting her skirt for him. Bonnie has an inkling he might even let her zap him a little. Or a lot. _Don't hold back. Not with me_. Skipping out on her best friend's wedding. Magical tattoos. Riding his hand in a stolen car. Brawling in public. Sex in her father's home. Klaus made it so easy to give in. Made the worst ideas sound enticing.

Which is precisely why she needs him out of her house and back in New Orleans as soon as possible.

"I- I left the stove on," she manages, fumbling for the doorknob. "You can take a shower if you like-,"

"Bonnie-," he growls, uncurling himself from her bed like a panther stirred from sleep.

"There's clean towels in the cupboard," she yells over her shoulder before practically fleeing her bedroom.

* * *

Getting clean usually goes a long way to improving his mood, but two days of riding a venom-high on top of weeks of being denied the release his body craves find him glowering at the shower wall as the frustratingly weak water pressure cascades around him. He can smell her still. Traces of her linger in the steam, swirling around him until he wants to slam his fist into the tile, leave a dent she can't miss in the pretty blue walls.

Reaching for the bar soap, a cream-and-gold colored bottle of body-wash catches his eye, evidently more expensive than any other product in here and, judging by its fullness, hardly used.

She's not immune to the power of their tattoos. He'd sensed the shock of desire beneath her skin when he'd sat on her bed and offered supplication. He'd caught the smell of her arousal when he asked her to come straddle his lap. She's as affected as he is and yet carries herself as though the same need that curls in his gut at the mere thought of her is a soil upon her dainty ankles.

Uncapping the bottle causes a warm, honeyed fragrance to escape that conjures the memory of her skin so vividly he groans and leans into the wall, cursing himself for his weakness even as he wraps a soapy hand around his shaft and strokes himself in hard, jerking motions. He thinks of her in that empty shop in New Orleans if they'd never been interrupted, her legs clenching around his waist, nails scraping white-hot trails of magic on his back as he rocks into her just how she likes-

"Fuck-,"

He comes with a sweet, violent urgency, swallowing her name like a curse.

It's not nearly enough to scratch an itch that's become a groove, but it relieves enough tension to clear his brain.

The kanimas may have cost him two days, but now he had a list of names. A lead to follow that would divert his thoughts and energies from her. Being around the witch triggers a dangerous, reckless wanting that's unnerving. Hedonistic leanings notwithstanding, his self-assured nature wars against any loss of control that isn't guided by his own instincts. And those instincts are much better employed seeking out the means to end this damnable bond.

* * *

She's put the roses in a vase.

His eyes catch the pink blossoms on his way to the door when Rudy appears in the foyer.

He hadn't had much cause to examine the witch's father too closely in the past. His time in Mystic Falls had demonstrated that while Rudy meant well, he wasn't equipped to provide anything approaching stability and security for a powerful witch like Bonnie. Amid the vicissitudes of the supernatural world people like Rudy were often collateral damage, with little power to change or influence their circumstances. To someone like him, they were practically non entities. Which made the old man's role in keeping Bonnie tethered to Mystic Falls that much more infuriating.

"Heading out?" Rudy questions. "Don't leave on my account. There's plenty of dinner if you'd like to stay."

Klaus gives the other man a curt nod. "Thank you, but I have business that needs attending in New Orleans." Hunting down whoever is responsible for these tattoos and wringing their neck bare-handed, for starters.

"I'm sure Bonnie appreciates you coming all this way," Rudy adds, with a faint smile. "She doesn't get a lot of visitors holed up here with me."

"Knowing her, I'm certain there's no place else she'd rather be," Klaus assures him, impatient to be off. The kanima venom is out of his system, but said system needs refuelling.

Rudy's smile turns wry. "Doesn't change the fact that she shouldn't."

It's then Klaus catches a familiar scent, like ash and wilted chrysanthemums, a subtle hint in the energy around a person who Death is closely following.

Rudy Hopkins is dying, sooner than Bonnie might think. And what's more, he seems on some level aware of this fact.

Klaus is reminded of that morning in City Park when Bonnie had relayed Rudy's condition as well as her own inability to change it. Father and daughter were evidently more alike than he'd imagined. The same quiet dignity that's almost infuriating.

Before he can reply, Rudy's face changes, growing blank and distant as he gazes over Klaus' shoulder.

"I think Abby's in the other room. Excuse me," he mumbles before ambling past him down the hallway.

* * *

She finds him smoking the last bit of a cigarette on the porch and hands him the cufflinks she'd found in her purse. "Don't leave without these."

He stuffs the small box into his pocket and gives her a look of fiery impatience like he's eager to put distance between them. Her relief, she finds, is undercut by a peculiar sense of loss.

"Thank you for breakfast," she adds, shifting her weight awkwardly.

"And I am long overdue for some supper. Thank you for the clean clothes," he adds, turning to leave.

"Wait!" she rushes forward and takes hold of his jacket sleeve as his words register. "You can't...eat anyone."

"Why ever not?" he huffs.

"The Council's been working really hard to keep vampire-related deaths down, especially since Damon and Elena went on a bender."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Fascinating. And yet I fail to see why I can't take my supper as I please."

She thinks quickly and offers a suggestion, "I can get you some blood bags-,"

He laughs quite merrily by way of reply. "An amusing notion, but I'm afraid I must decline."

Bonnie tightens her grip on his jacket, as though she could prevent his actions by sheer force of will. Her work at the Council meant it was her job to do everything she could to stop him from eating a civilian. And besides, she's the reason he's here in the first place. "Drink from me then," she blurts, desperate. "Witch's blood is more powerful than the regular kind. You won't need as much."

The mirth fades from his face in the falling darkness. A long moment passes during which Bonnie is certain he can hear her heartbeat running away with her.

"What a curious little martyr you are, Bonnie Bennett," he says at length.

"I'll get you a glass-," she says, only to find he's caught her by the waist.

Before she can blink he's pushed her against a dark corner of the porch where the wisteria hangs low. She sees a shadow of anger brush his face before he says, simply, "No."

It's a challenge, of course. One she should rise above. But the close heat and scent of him, the long hours she'd spent that day fighting the urge to simply let him touch her, have frayed her logic down to a thread. _I just need him gone_ , she thinks in a daze, lifting a wrist before offering a challenge of her own. "Don't make a mess."

His mouth moves over her pulse, fangs descending with a growl that makes her shiver. It's far from gentle, far from the tender pressure she recalls from their 'wedding' night. Then, she had entrusted him with the vulnerability that a lack of inhibition revealed and he'd deployed his hunger without disguise, yes, but with care and appreciation for the magnitude of their exposed selves. Now, after a month apart, after a day spent rebuffing his attempts at closeness, his bite stings with reproach. The openness that flares between them is raw, its edges grown sharp with want. He swallows her blood like wine and she tastes all the ways he wants her. She arches into him like all the times she thought of him in the shower and denied herself, feeling his free hand flatten against the small of her back, pressing her almost angrily into him.

She tries and fails to repress a small whimper when he withdraws his fangs. An attempt to pull her wrist away is received with a soft growl as he continues licking and sucking the skin until it heals. When he trails kisses down the inside of her forearm it takes every last ounce of her battered self-control not to sway into him.

"Klaus-," she whispers, "let me go."

Her eyes betray her by straying to his mouth.

"No," he says softly, before his lips cover her own.

A deep and ineffable quiet washes over him when his mouth touches hers, when his hands at last take hold of her. Like being pulled beneath the waves. Like cupping a seashell around your ear. A quiet so searingly clear, so blissfully complete, that when it floods every vein until he feels buoyant, until he's relieved of the dull weight of deprivation, the steady ache of not touching her, he groans and pushes her into the wall, greedily trapping her with his body.

Bonnie gasps in response, the fleeting pain of the impact drowned out by the singing relief of being in his arms, of tasting his mouth. Cigarettes and spearmint and coffee never combined to produce such a warm and thrilling flavor, a flavor that she devours hungry as an addict as her trembling arms come around his neck, as her fingers fist in his hair. The possessive gesture seems to delight him, because he growls into the kiss and takes her lower lip between his teeth hard enough to draw blood. She responds by grasping handfuls of his curls and scraping her nails along his scalp. Their mouths move carelessly, desperately together, an uneven litany of pants and sighs and quick, soft moans.

"Klaus," she says his name like when he'd kissed her in that empty shop after she nearly set him on fire. Only this time her voice betrays her, his name escaping like a soft plea. She doesn't know what she's pleading for but he apparently does, because the next second he's lifting her up onto the porch railing so her thighs graze his waist as he steps between them. His arm steadies her reassuringly as she clings to his shirt, while his other hand moves across the inside of her thigh.

He grins when she tries to muster a protest, peppering her neck and shoulder with kisses. "Think of the civilians, love," he murmurs, easing his hand past her underwear. "You're only doing your job. Saving them from the big, bad wolf...,"

She gasps when his fingers dance along her folds and her heels dig into the back of his legs.

He doesn't relinquish his hold, languid with the triumph of having her in a most desirable position. "You won't fall," he promises, cupping her mound. His lip curls in triumph at the wetness welling into his palm.

"Someone's - going to see us," she whispers in a panic, her hips rolling forward of their own volition. She can't think, can't stop from melting against him.

"I'll pluck their eyes out first," he says, biting her just below the neckline of her blue camisole.

She decides it's the tattoos that make her inner walls clench in longing for his fingers.

"This is crazy-," she pleads, a gasp catching in her throat as he finally gives her what she wants, stroking her from the inside and causing her body to gush its pleasure. She clutches at him and, after trying in vain to keep quiet, mewls against his neck.

He has no intention of stopping. The whole bloody Founder's Council could drive up to the porch and he still wouldn't let go of her. Not when she's wrapped around him, sopping wet for him, like this. "Bite down," he orders, nudging her head to his shoulder, and as soon as her teeth sink there his hand increases in speed, his thumb flicking her clit in swift casual movements while his fingers bury knuckle deep inside her. Bonnie rocks into his hand, muffling her moans and whimpers in his shoulder.

She comes so quickly she'd be embarrassed if she had her wits about her. Instead all her faculties are focused on smothering her cry of ecstatic relief while her body shudders and writhes into his touch. When at last the waves recede leaving her weak her head drops where her teeth had clung mere seconds ago with a long, slow exhale. She feels like grass stirring in a soft breeze, both dizzy and grounded, tingling down to her toes and blissfully lethargic.

They remain that way for a few moments, suspended in a warm oasis of feeling that makes her want to keep the world at bay forever. But at length she sighs, her head rolling a little, and he withdraws his fingers slowly, wetly from inside her. "Admit it, you needed that," he purrs, stroking her thigh.

"Shut up," she mumbles, nuzzling her face against the crook of his neck. Eventually he lowers her to her feet, his hands keeping a firm, caressing hold on her. He wants to lay her down - preferably on his bed - and lick the dampness off her thighs. To bury himself inside her in compensation for the weeks that felt like years he'd gone without.

"Come back to New Orleans with me," he says, planting a kiss below her ear.

"What, like a honeymoon?" she asks wryly.

Klaus shrugs. "I see no reason why either of us should deprive ourselves for two months." His fingertips trace whorls along the curve of her back, sending little tremors down her legs. "I could wake you up like this, every morning."

His voice and touch wreak gentle havoc on her senses, but she pushes away and this time he allows her to slip his grasp. "You know I can't. My dad's here-,"'

"Bring your father along. He'll want for nothing." Rudy could have ample care in New Orleans - his pick of the many lavish rooms at the mansion, round-the-clock professional attendance - he'd ensure it.

The matter-of-fact statement floors her, a promise of sunlit breakfasts and flowers and his hands making her body sing everyday that drifts down around her like gossamer gold. She's shocked and ashamed of the sharp bolt of yearning that strikes her chest. As if it could ever be so easy. As if the fantasy wouldn't grind to a screeching halt the moment their tattoos lost their power. "Klaus, that's...really generous but, he's supposed to stay in familiar surroundings. It's safer that way," she says, smoothing down her skirt.

Frustration edges into his voice as she averts her eyes. "Safer for whom, love? Him, or you?" He can feel their brief interlude already fading into the background despite his efforts. Like trying to close your hand around morning mist: a helpless and maddening endeavor.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, folding her arms.

"Just how terribly convenient all your excuses are," he growls, looming over her. "You let me drink from you to spare others, not because you enjoy it. It's just _duty_ after all. Your father's ill, so you'll run back inside your room and pretend you don't want me to follow you."

" _Excuses_? That's what you call them?" she balks. "Because I can't drop everything to roll around in bed with you for two months? You're unbelievable-"

His arm shoots out, trapping her between him and the wall. "Enlighten me then," he says in a low voice. "Which one of your happy responsibilities drove you to escape Caroline's wedding in my company, hmm? The witch, or the nursemaid? Or was it both?"

"It's not always about- about happiness and fun Klaus!" she argues, no longer caring who heard her. "Sometimes you have to suck it up and do the right thing, even if you don't want to. God -," she exhales sharply. Of course he didn't understand. He wasn't even trying to. No, he expected her to be _grateful_ that he'd swooped in and dismissed everything that gave her life meaning. "But who am I kidding? I'm talking to the guy who just throws his family in coffins so he can wheel them around when things get inconvenient-,"

"Oh it would be wasted effort in this case, love," he retorts, carelessly. "You certainly don't need my help living in a casket."

His words sink slow like a knife. She's bleeding before she feels the cut. "Get out," she says, her voice shaking. "Get off my porch."

He feels sick with an anger he can't describe, that's aimed at himself as much her. And yet, he can't bring himself to move, to be anywhere except right here, wounding and wounded.

Finally she raises a palm full of magic and hits him in the chest with enough force to nearly topple him down the stairs. "I don't want to fight you," she says, through tears, trembling from head to toe. "Leave, Klaus."

Bonnie staggers inside and locks the door, sinking slowly to the ground as a sob breaks from her throat. She hears his boots approach the threshold. He could break the door with ease, and yet there's only a tense, heavy silence as she fights to calm her breathing and wipe her eyes.

He slams a hand against the door, just hard enough that it shakes.

The wood seems to shudder at her back long after he's gone. Frustration and accusation that still, somehow, feels almost like a caress.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Ugh my stubborn dork babies, I love them so much. This is the longest chapter I've ever written D: I hope it flowed well and wasn't too riddled with typos and errors. Please let me know your thoughts in the reviews, and thank you for everyone who's continued to support this story. This chapter marks the halfway point of the narrative, I still can't believe it._

 _For those of you that aren't on Tumblr, this past week was Klonnie Appreciation Week! If you head over to my blog you'll be able to view everyone's amazing contributions under the hashtag #klw2k17. Additionally, three of my favorite writers posted new stories inspired by the KLW themes; please do yourself a favor and check out Night of the Hunter by **TheHedgeRider** , lima syndrome by **thefudgeisgrumpy** and  Love in the Time of Injustice by **Six2VII** and show them the love they deserve. _

_Until next time! xoxoxo_

 _P.S: There's now a playlist for this fic on 8-tracks. You can find me there under Anastasia_G._


	10. Chapter 10

"Are those... supposed to be daisies?"

Caroline sighs in irritation at her husband's question, fiddling with the half wilted arrangement on their dinner table as Stefan wraps his arms around her.

"Can you believe some asshole bought the last bouquet of roses before I could? No one here buys roses unless it's Valentine's Day, so what gives?" she complains, leaning into her husband's chest. _Mystic Blooms_ is far from what she'd consider ideal for the town's only florist but she could at least count on a bouquet of roses every Sunday.

"I can't wait until we don't live here anymore," she says, derisively flicking a half-dead daisy. She and Stefan have it all planned out. Well, she'd done most of the planning with regard to their itinerary but Stefan had some helpful tips about historical sites. They intended to travel for a while. She'd spent too many years bristling at the limitations of Mystic Falls, and Stefan had squandered his years away from their hometown drifting from city to city with little purpose or enjoyment. They wanted to see the world, through new eyes and old, for the first time, for the right reasons.

"I can't wait to live in Rome," Stefan says, kissing her below her ear.

"We haven't decided on Italy," she reminds him, giggling a little. He'd made his strong bias for his ancestral home known right from the beginning.

He gives her a squeeze. "You haven't been there yet."

"Is there anything besides raging patriotism that makes you think I'll love Italy?"

"Easy," he says, in between kisses. "Italy is the classiest place in the world, and you're the classiest girl I know."

It's only a small thing, but it makes her heart warm just the same. For all that she'd been Miss Mystic Falls, head of the prom committee, and prom queen two years in a row in addition to being voted Most Likely to Be Famous in her senior year, she'd never really travelled as widely, or seen as much, as her glamorous social facade might lead people to believe. But where she saw a personal lack Stefan saw as an ambition and commitment to self-betterment that, he told her once, was nothing short of awe inspiring. Where she saw an unfortunate provinciality, he saw a deeply rooted sense of self. He trusted her taste and discernment implicitly, honoring the many years of careful cultivation she'd poured into them.

"We'll see who's classier, me or Italy," she teases, nudging him towards the dining table.

Their dinner conversation flows around their travel plans, only to wind up in the same place they often did: Bonnie. Neither of them were fond of the idea of leaving their self-effacing friend behind in Mystic Falls, but they also knew that wild horses couldn't drag Bonnie away from Rudy's side. Between the drama of Elena and Damon skipping town in the wake of a drunken murder spree, her own engagement to Stefan and the excited flurry of wedding planning, plus Rudy getting sick, Caroline's friendship with Bonnie had been reduced to a series of gestures and obligations. A perfunctory quality had settled into their interactions that, she realized now, had even clouded their romps as bride and maid-of-honor. It wasn't until Bonnie disappeared from the reception and reappeared the next day married to Klaus that Caroline had been jolted out of her complacency into the realization that, while she'd been preoccupied building a future with Stefan, deep changes had troubled the still waters of Bonnie's life.

"I think I'm going to take Bonnie some tiramisu," she announces, packing up the remainder of their dessert with a bottle of wine for good measure.

"I take it she still hasn't dished about the wedding night?" Stefan asks laconically, wiping his hands on a towel.

Caroline huffs in frustration. "Nope. She's all casual and 'don't worry about it' whenever I bring it up. You'd think we were talking about the time I borrowed her blue cardigan and forgot to give it back."

"Umm...didn't you invent a story about losing that cardigan so you could keep it?"

She snatches the dishtowel from him. "That's not the point, Stefan. And whose side are you on anyway?"

He frowns. "Wait...does this make Klaus the _village_ cardigan?"

Caroline rolls her eyes. "A village _I_ never visited. I almost feel left out."

Stefan pours himself another glass of wine. "Trust me, the good sex isn't worth all the drama."

She raises an eyebrow. Stefan didn't speak much about his relationship with Klaus other than to say it was what it was: two wandering souls who'd fallen into each other's orbit and clung to a sense of familiarity. But not for the first time she feels her competitive nature surge to the surface. "How good?" she asks with a hint of challenge in her voice.

Stefan eyes her over the rim of his glass, "Do you want an itemized list or-,"

She cuts off his sentence by pushing him back against the sink with a hard, purposeful kiss and stealing a drop of blood from his lower lip, savoring the way his eyes blacken with desire. They push and pull at each other towards the countertop before she pushes him down on it with a little growl that, she knows, he finds entirely addictive. Her fangs descend and latch on to the spot just under his collarbone, making his body pitch like a boat in a storm.

Afterwards, she's shrugging her top back on when Stefan cups the curve of her waist and pulls her gently against him.

"Disneyland," he murmurs into her neck.

She laughs."What?"

"Klaus was a Texas water park. You're Disneyworld."

She swallows the light flutter in her chest and tugs playfully on his hair. "And don't you forget it."

* * *

She heads over to Bonnie's with wine and tiramisu in tow, floating up the porch steps before ringing the doorbell, waiting only a few seconds before using her spare key. She notices a small dent in the wood a few inches above eye level.

But that's nowhere near as alarming as the site of her friend who appears in the hallway puffy-eyed and woebegone, a small ice cream stain on the front of her t-shirt and a spoon still clutched in one hand. Caroline doesn't wait for whatever feeble attempt Bonnie has planned to minimize her clear distress before striding forward to envelop her in a hug, holding her tightly until Bonnie gives in and sniffles a little into her shoulder.

It takes her a moment to notice the pink roses in the living room behind her.

"Wow."

"Yup...," Bonnie mumbles, twisting the end of her t-shirt as she waits for Caroline to process what she'd just told her.

The blonde blinks rapidly for several moments before emitting another "Wow," and bypassing her glass to take a swig directly from the bottle.

"So you mean to tell me," she begins, wiping her mouth. "That not only are you _magically_ _married_ to Klaus Mikaelson, but he paid you a weekend visit, cooked you breakfast, and fingered you on your front porch before he left?"

"That's...pretty much everything," Bonnie says, with a long sigh. Despite the incredulous shock on Caroline's face, it feels good to finally have things out in the open.

It's not a feeling she gets to savor before Caroline whacks her with a pillow. "How could you not tell me?!"

"You're my best friend! My maid of honor!" Caroline exclaims, swinging the pillow again. And you've been keeping this secret the whole time?"

"I didn't want to bother you!" Bonnie cries, hands raised in protest. "You and Stefan had your honeymoon, and then things got busy with the Council-,"

"Bull-fucking-shit Bonnie. This is just your M.O. You keep everything important about you to yourself. It's some weird martyr complex-,"

"I was embarrassed okay?" Bonnie shouts, stunning the blonde into silence. She sinks into the couch and draws up her knees. "You're right," she says, her eyes watering again. "I shouldn't have lied to you. But I couldn't even wrap my head around why I did what I did, or why I feel-," she breaks off, biting her lip. "I felt like I let everyone down," she says, softly.

Caroline's mood goes from outrage to concern in that quicksilver way, and she's instantly beside Bonnie, throwing an arm around her trembling shoulders. She pulls her witchy friend close. "I'm sorry, Bon. I shouldn't have yelled...," she trails off, registering Bonnie's words. "Wait...why would you be embarrassed? Did the neighbors see you and Klaus sexing up the porch?"

Bonnie shudders. "Oh god, no. It's just..."

"That you let Klaus finger you by the hyacinth vines?"

Bonnie glares at her before retreating to the corner of the couch. "It was the wisteria, and can we... maybe give it a rest?"

Caroline, undeterred, reaches into the bag and sets out dessert. "If you think I'm not bringing up the fact that Klaus Mikaelson finger-banged you on the front porch in every possible conversation, then you don't know me."

Bonnie groans, dropping her face into her hands. Caroline glances at her friend and then back at the pink roses, recalling their conversation at House Sauvage the night before her wedding and the storm of conflicting emotion the mere thought of seeing the hybrid had roused in Bonnie. A theory takes shape in her mind.

"Bon...do you have real feelings for him?"

The question is met with a look of tearful disbelief. "How can you-," Bonnie splutters. "Care, I explained how these tattoos work. The magic in them creates feelings of -of attraction and-,"

"I know how they work, Bon," she interrupts, bristling a little at the witch's tone. "I'm not a witch but I'm not stupid either."

"Sorry," Bonnie sighs, running a hand over her hair. "I'm just a little on edge."

"Understandable after being fingered on-,"

"Okay I GET IT," she cuts in, glaring at the vampire. "Should I tell the whole town? Ask the _Mystic Falls Historical Society_ if they'll let me have a sign outside the house? ' _Local Witch Got Fingered by Original Hybrid_ here.'"

Caroline tries and fails to suppress a snort that quickly becomes a giggle. It's her turn to get whacked with a pillow.

"It's not funny, Care!"

But Bonnie's lips twitch at the corners and soon she's laughing too. A dry, rueful laugh with tears still on her cheeks. She replaces the pillow and huddles up on her friend's shoulder.

"Can I see it?" Caroline asks after a beat. "Your tattoo?"

"Hmm?"

"I've never seen one in the flesh," the blonde points out with a shrug. "I'm curious."

Bonnie turns, lifting her hair so the spiralling golden mark on her nape becomes visible. Caroline regards the tattoo with narrowed eyes, sensing and yet unimpressed by its magic.

She's not a witch but she's far from stupid, and she's known Bonnie Bennett since they were eight years old, when Bonnie endured a whole week of detention rather than reveal it was Caroline who stuck gum on their homeroom teacher's chair. Even back then, Bonnie had a code of conduct that she carried out with a will of iron. No force on earth could have induced the witch to betray her friend, to go against what she believed was right, and Caroline felt certain that no sparkly tattoo - no matter how magical - could truly push Bonnie as deep as she's evidently been pushed into whatever her feelings were for Klaus without the witch having some say in the matter. The hybrid, she knew from experience, was predisposed to impulsive and passionate overtures. And she could see, too, why someone of his temperament would be drawn to Bonnie even after she'd nearly burned him alive. Perhaps, especially so.

But Bonnie Bennett is made of stronger stuff than all of them, and no spell could make her do things that, on some deep level, she doesn't truly want.

"How long do their effects last again?" Caroline asks, serving the witch a heaping plate of tiramisu.

"Three months," Bonnie huffs. "So I have about eight weeks of this torture to look forward to."

Caroline takes a bite of the dessert, eyeing her closely. "And what happens after that?"

"After that, Klaus and I go back to barely tolerating each other's existence instead of...," she waves a hand in the air, "...whatever this is."

"Right..."

"What?" Bonnie asks, narrowing her eyes.

"Nothing," the blonde smiles, nudging a plate in her friend's direction. "Here, have some. It's an old Salvatore family recipe."

While Bonnie digs into the tiramisu, Caroline finds her own eyes straying to the pink roses blooming so beautifully in the parlor.

She's no witch, but she's certain nothing about this situation will resolve itself like Bonnie imagines.

* * *

"Vin-,"

"No."

"This is the fifth time they've called," Sophie mumbles, pulling the blanket over her head. "Just see what they want-,"

"You can't make me," he says, nuzzling into the curve of her neck.

"Is that a challenge, Regent?" she returns, in that stern, husky voice that never fails to travel straight to his cock.

He is about to pull her atop him for a thorough chastisement for how he's shirking his Regent duties, only for the furious ringing of their doorbell to shatter the moment completely.

Ignoring Sophie's I-told-you-so expression, he pulls on his robe and shuffles to the door. Two disgruntled witches stand on his threshold and his fragile hope that whatever problem besets them has nothing to do with a Mikaelson dies instantly.

* * *

Vincent finds said Mikaelson sitting on the floor of the empty shop, the same place he'd found the hybrid and the witch after their lovers' quarrel. Klaus holds a half-finished bottle of whiskey and wears a stormcloud on his face.

"You should have business cards, you know that? Klaus Mikaelson: Professional Cockblocker."

When a muffled growl is his only response, Vincent takes a few steps towards the hybrid and sniffs in disapproval. "You smell like a truck stop. I take it your brave sojourn to Mystic Falls didn't go quite as planned?" He'd heard from Marcel who'd had to console a frustrated Rebekah that the hybrid had high-tailed it out of New Orleans in his sister's car.

Klaus shoots him a baleful look.

"Wanna tell me why coven members are dragging me out of my bed to complain about you accosting them?" Vincent demands, folding his arms across his chest.

"I was merely seeking information."

"It's one in the morning. On a Tuesday."

A half-hearted snarl is all the answer he gets.

"People have _jobs_ , Klaus. They have _lives_ ," Vincent says. "Not to mention girlfriends," he adds under his breath. But this is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the hybrid rises abruptly to his feet and drives a fist into the drywall.

For the first time, Vincent feels irritation outweigh his amusement at Klaus' predicament. It's all fun and games until the Quarter has to contend with an out-of-control hybrid for months. Whoever thought tattooing them was a good idea deserved their necks wrung. He catches himself with a headshake; he's been hanging around Mikaelsons too long. A Regent should only resort to deadly force when all other options have been exhausted.

"One more name," Klaus says, in a low voice.

"What?"

"The kanimas gave me names," Klaus bites off impatiently. "One of those names might know the person responsible for my 'marriage.' And when I find them-,"

Vincent pinches the bridge of his noses. "Say you find them. Say you decapitate them and wear their ears as a necklace. Your tattoos aren't going to stop affecting you until the three months are up." His head hurts. It feels like trying to explain rocket science to a toddler.

"No, but I shall derive great pleasure in disemboweling the cause of this miserable bond."

Vincent studies the look of mad determination on Klaus' face and begins to sense, for the first time, that the hybrid is afraid. Afraid that the three months would draw to a close and find him still caught up in feelings for the witch, that she would shun him while he remained trapped by a crushing desire. This behavior was of a man used to control driven nearly out of his mind by the lack of it, like a hurricane veered off course. Vincent decides he needs to speak with Sophie and concoct a plan, find a way to ensure the prideful hybrid and stubborn Bennett witch ran the course of this thing between them with as little damage to each other and their respective cities as possible. (He recalls that late night phone call and the witch's voice pinched with worry as she inquired about Klaus. He's certain she's doing little better than the Original). But for now, the best way to minimize chaos in the city would be to shepherd Klaus through his quest.

"What's the next address?" Vincent asks, resigning himself to a long night.

"I do not require a nanny, Regent."

"What you need is for someone to beat your ass until you come to your senses but I'm not wasting time and magic on that so, let's go."

"She lives across the way."

"Who does?"

"Moira O'Donaghue. The next name on the list."

" _Moira_?" Vincent groans, convinced the Spirits have it out for him. Getting information out of that crazy old witch is bound to be as easy as wrangling her ferocious pet rooster one handed, and that's not accounting for the million favors he'll owe her for bringing a Mikaelson to her doorstep. He'll be lucky if he gets a day off for the foreseeable future.

"Do you anticipate her being a problem?" Klaus inquires, almost casually.

"Oh you have no idea. Let's go asshole."

"Really, Vincent?" Klaus says, clicking his tongue. "Petty name calling? Is that what you've devolved into?" The hybrid gives him a look of mock offense over his shoulder as they head outside.

"Shut up Klaus."

He marches across the alleyway with Klaus on his heels to Moira's red-painted door. The wood is covered with protective symbols eked in chalk surrounding a single, small eye carved from lapis and ivory. Not for the first time, Vincent wonders if it's a deceptively innocuous magical device that allows her to spy on all her neighbors.

He's about to knock when Moira preempts them by opening the door, and the strong scent of incense and rum wafts out like a greeting. Draped in a lavish purple and gold dressing gown, tight reddish-silver curls framing an expressive, oval face, and crimson-painted nails holding a glass of whiskey, the witch's gaze shifts from Vincent to Klaus and a smirk lifts the corner of her mouth.

"Hello Regent," she drawls. "Still corralling Mikaelsons I see."

"Somebody has to," Vincent mutters. It's then he notices the hybrid gone white and stiff as though he's seen a ghost.

"Niklaus." Moria's eyes dance with smug mischief. "How's the little witch wife?"

Vincent looks from one to the other and feels the pressing need for a glass of heavy alcohol. "Wait. Moira... _you_ tattooed his fool ass?"

"I sure did," she replies, a triumphant smile crossing her face as Klaus tries and fails to stride through the magical barrier at her door. "Mind you, I'm retired. But some old friends came to town looking to set up shop for a night, so I joined 'em. Imagine my surprise when Klaus Mikaelson walked in...with a witch on his arm no less." She arches an eyebrow at the hybrid and suppresses a laugh. "And here I thought you'd resigned yourself to bachelorhood-,"

Klaus beating a fist against the magical barrier cuts off the rest of her sentence.

Moira laughs. "Try again when your three months are up. And next time," she says, swishing her dressing gown behind her, "leave the attitude outside."

Klaus' eyes flash a furious yellow. Moira stands her ground.

Vincent wonders if Regents qualify for early retirement.

* * *

Two weeks after their encounter on the porch, once the scent of him has faded beyond all reprieve from her bedclothes, Bonnie finds it increasingly difficult to fall asleep. Despite filling her days with extra tasks and chores to take her mind off the hybrid, each night finds her lying awake with an uneasy feeling in her gut as memory replays their bitter argument.

 _You certainly don't need my help living in a casket._

The anger that flared so hot when she ordered him off her porch has, to her dismay, simmered into a thick, morose feeling that has her dragging her feet and struggling to enjoy her daily life. His words rattle around her brain as she helps the Council with another mundane magical task, as she cooks Rudy breakfast and folds his laundry, as she pushes her shopping cart around the grocery store and 'treats' herself to some Riesling.

At first, she tries to refute this malaise with reason. What did Klaus know anyway? She didn't need lemon crepes and beignets everyday to be happy. She can buy herself flowers! And vibrator technology could give even his annoyingly skillful fingers a run for their money.

Still, the terrible listlessness persists, putting her off her appetite and assailing her with such lethargy that many mornings find her struggling to put on clothes that aren't pajamas.

"You're experiencing _lacrimoso_ : it's a common side effect of marriage tattoos," Caroline informs her one evening after the blonde insisted on joining Bonnie and Rudy for dinner. After helping Rudy get to bed, Bonnie had started clearing the dishes while Caroline put away leftovers.

"I'm experiencing _what_?"

"Lacrimoso," Caroline enunciates, spooning lasagne into tupperware. "It's a kind of withdrawal symptom that's exacerbated when the couple have a fight or disagreement. Basically, you're both gonna feel pretty shitty until you talk this out."

Frustration makes her want to smash a plate on the floor. Mastering that impulse, Bonnie eyes the blonde vampire in surprise. "Since when are you an expert on marriage tattoos?"

"Since I grabbed a couple of your Grimoires while you weren't looking," Caroline informs her without batting an eye. "What?" she adds, as Bonnie glares in disapproval. "You know I like to do my research."

"Nosy. It's called being nosy."

She shrugs "Tomato, tomahto."

Bonnie shakes her head in exasperation and resumes her task.

"So, whatcha gonna do?" Caroline prods, hands on her hips. "And please don't say you're just gonna grin and bear it, because I will fight you. _Physically_."

"Are you suggesting I roll up to New Orleans with my sick father in tow to makeup with Klaus?"

Caroline shrugs. "I think you and Uncle Rudy could both use a change of scenery."

Bonnie puts down her dish towel in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. And you know what?" Caroline squares her shoulders in a no-nonsense way. "It's _Truth Time_."

Bonnie freezes. "...oh."

Since they were young girls, "Truth Time" signaled a moment wherein they would let each other speak with brutal honesty, and agree to listen with an open mind. Over the years, they'd used "Truth Time" to counsel each other about heartbreak and hookups, misunderstandings and mistakes. As their lives meshed into the supernatural and grew increasingly complicated, unvarnished truth became harder and harder to invoke where Elena was concerned. But Bonnie and Caroline had tried, periodically at least, to be honest with each other when they could.

As she sits across from Caroline at the table where they'd so often analyzed texts from their crushes or made vision boards for the new school year, Bonnie feels dejavu tempered by a wistful yet keen awareness of the passage of time.

Caroline flicks a lock of blond hair off her shoulder and leans forward. "So, you know when Rebekah was a total bitch and played you and Klaus' wedding video for everyone?"

Bonnie groans. "Like I'll ever forget."

"Well...," Caroline pauses, biting her lip. "Bonnie, I realized...I don't really know you anymore."

The words settle somewhere in Bonnie's chest, making her sit up a little. "What...?"

"Bon...when we started high school you were the most light-hearted, level-headed people I knew. You never let anything get you down for long. And... I never told you this but...I wished I was more like you."

Bonnie digests this in silence and mild shock. She's always been in the shadow of Elena and Caroline's light. She'd never imagined either of them could envy her.

"Remember when we first heard about Klaus and how scary he was?" Caroline continues. "All of us were paralyzed with fear, but you... you _acted_. You got juiced up on a hundred witches and came up with this badass secret plan that none of us knew about, and you almost succeeded in killing Klaus."

"So... you're saying I should _kill_ Klaus?"

Caroline rolls her eyes. "I'm saying that you've been spending so many years fixing other people's problems that you're too afraid to take action for your own sake."

The blonde continues, her voice gentle. "As daring and badass as you were for Elena and Damon, when are you gonna be daring and badass for _you_?"

Bonnie feels an uncomfortable twist in her gut. She stands, returning to the half-sorted pile of dirty dishes. "It's not the same thing, Care. I was sixteen, and a new witch, and all these people were trying to kill my friend...I didn't exactly have a choice."

"But you have one now," Caroline insists, rising to her feet and leaning over the kitchen counter. "Elena is god knows where, rolling around dirty sheets with Damon. Stefan and I are gonna leave Mystic Falls soon. And I know you care about the Council, but can you care about it for the _rest of your life_? Is that what you _really_ want?"

Bonnie tries to tune her out, to find that calm center of self-assurance she suddenly can't remember ever having. She yanks the dishwasher open and starts messily arranging the plates.

"Bon...who are you gonna hide behind when all of us are gone?"

The crash catches Caroline off guard.

Bonnie stares numbly at the shattered bowl on the floor. Her face, she finds, is wet with tears.

"I - I think I need some time alone," she manages, wiping her nose.

There's a stiff silence before Caroline nods, gathering up her things. She lingers for a few seconds in the doorway, her bright face troubled but resigned before she speaks.

"If you ask me... you've spent too much time alone already."

* * *

" _When you said 'marry me' I assumed we were going to the courthouse," Bonnie laughs, following Klaus into the small candle-lit alley off Bourbon Street. But her face sobers a little as she catches the magic practically crackling in the air. They climb a flight of stairs and find themselves in a glittering, bustling emporium. Her eyes pop wide at the sight of shelf upon shelf lined with magical objects and spelled tattoo ink. She's heard of such places, as well as the many uses of magical tattooing. Klaus' intentions suddenly become clear in an entirely new way._

" _Call me old fashioned," he says, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her close. "But blood and ink, sewn into the skin with magic, far outstrip a simple marriage certificate. Although.. I'm not opposed to troubling the state of Louisiana on our behalf."_

" _Well, you are old," she points out, poking his chest. But her teasing manner belies the strange, bright tumult inside her. If Klaus had taken them straight to the courthouse she would have still gone through with it, but deep down, there would be something missing._

" _If it's a judge and witnesses you desire, you shall have them," he says, tracing her cheek with his thumb. "But you know, as I do, that human laws and formalities can't hold a candle to the ancient inheritances in both our blood. Inheritances born in magic."_

 _Her heart soars and takes her breath with it. She's been tipsy many times, blackout drunk once or twice, but she's never felt quite like this. Like she's standing on a mountaintop with clouds brushing her skin, breathing crystalline air, light-headed with clarity._

" _I guess that's one way to propose to a witch," she says, smiling, before he captures her mouth in a kiss that leaves her a little breathless._

" _You two gonna buy something?" a red-headed older woman in a turquoise kaftan bellows from the back. "Because we_ will _charge for honeymooning in the_ _foyer."_

* * *

Her fingertips trail through the dust on her altar.

The small table full crystals and amulets seems to eye her mournfully, like a neglected child. She hasn't been to this little corner of the house in months, since the day her Grams appeared with the message that Rudy was beyond saving. After that, Bonnie avoided the cherished, meditative enclave: it had seemed tainted with failure.

But standing before it now, she realizes how much she's missed retreating into her own little haven of magic.

She spends the better part of an hour sweeping and dusting, then rearranging her crystals, before burning some cleansing herbs and lighting a few candles. Finally, she throws open the curtain so that moonlight pours over her altar, and an airy feeling touches her chest as she surveys the room.

Yes, she's missed this. But more than anything she's missed that burning sense of purpose she once had, that drive and fire that Caroline Forbes herself confessed to envying, the heedless conviction that she could take on anything and anyone no matter how powerful they were. And while the years have disabused her of the belief in her own invincibility, she longs for that excitement and certainty that magic had once brought her. The same excitement and certainty that had flared so strong, so overwhelming the night she married Klaus.

That thought causes a flutter of emotion in her stomach as she pulls up a cushion and positions herself on it cross-legged, as she folds her hands and tries to concentrate on her breathing.

As much as she hates to admit it, Caroline is right. She's been rudderless for far too long and as a result, she let herself get swept under. She can't spend another month and a half like this, oscillating between anger and yearning. Relinquishing control is what got her this tattoo on her neck and the maelstrom of emotions in its wake, and the only way to regain her balance is to seize a measure of it back.

* * *

"You can't burn an old lady's house down," Vincent protests, blocking the hybrid's path.

"Oh I beg to differ, Regent," Klaus gestures to the tiki torch and bucket of gasoline in his hands. "And the extensive arson supplies at the much maligned _Walmart_ agree with me. Now move aside."

"You need her to remove your tattoo-,"

"I will find another witch or warlock! And if that fails, I will rip the mark from my own flesh. It matters not, in a little over a month I shall be free of their effects-,"

"Klaus, for once in your life just put the torch down and fucking listen," Vincent says, anger and frustration coloring his voice as he marches up to the hybrid. "I know you might think Moira's some kooky old bat with a penchant for tattoos - and I'll grant you the kooky part - but she's also got connections to nearly every major coven in the city, including my own. An attack on her, is an attack on them."

The hybrid's face is mutinous in the flickering torchlight.

Vincent continues, "So go ahead, torch her house if that's how you wanna get your jollies now: but when you and Bonnie get your little divorce, you'll have to contend with a war in your backyard."

Klaus says nothing, then abruptly puts the torch out on the ground while cursing colorfully and in several different languages.

When he's convinced the hybrid won't actually destroy Moira's house, Vincent heaves a silent sigh of relief thanking every Spirit he knows.

"Now I'm gonna go home, pour myself a drink, and pretend I do something easy for a living. Like herding feral cats," he mutters, walking past the hybrid and to his car.

* * *

When Bonnie opens her eyes, her fingertips and toes are tingling with that curious, insouciant feeling that communing with magic always brings. A sense of clarity fills her and with it, acceptance.

She has to see Klaus, has to resolve things between them if she's to endure the next few weeks with any measure of peace. The thought of facing him again - she breathes, lets the emotion flare and permeate her body. It's not something she wants to do, but it's something that must be done. And if it's one thing Bonnie's always understood, it's doing what's necessary.

Her decision made, she leaves her altar and opens up her laptop, sending a few emails to Rudy's doctor, then Alaric. With that squared away, she looks up wheelchair allowances on a few domestic airlines, already anticipating Rudy grumbling about being carted around.

Oh well, maybe getting away from Mystic Falls would be a good enough distraction that he won't mind a few concessions.

An hour later, she surveys the email on her phone from Southwest Airlines, confirming a flight for two to New Orleans.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Hiiiiiiii! I'm SO sorry for the monstrously long wait, I swear I had no intention of making y'all wait this long. I got caught up doing long-ish oneshots for Gothic Klonnie Week and then the winter holidays respectively and my poor married babies fell by the wayside. But good news, this story is back to being my top priority, and we're now entering the home stretch! So, I'm gonna do my best to return to a once-a-month update schedule so that I can wrap this baby up and roll out a few other Klonnie projects that are waiting in the wings ;) Anyway, Klonnie are headed for another reunion: this time in New Orleans! I know there wasn't much of their interaction this chapter, but I needed them to do some stuff to get them where I want them. Hope the chapter was enjoyable and somewhat worth the wait, and please let me know your thoughts in the reviews! xoxox_


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